


Sea-foam and Pixie-dust

by chooken



Category: Westlife
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Children's Literature, Cohabitation, Dreams vs. Reality, Fairy Tale Retellings, Family Secrets, Foster Care, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Loneliness, M/M, Mystery, Orphans, Phobias, Repressed Memories, Seaside, Self-Harm, Selkies, Sleeping Together, Survival, Water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 18:56:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 66,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13254588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chooken/pseuds/chooken
Summary: A little house, at the end of a desolate spit.A man washed up on the sand, naked and without his memory.A boy who believes in monsters and fairies and dark stories with unhappy endings.And Kian, who invites them in.





	1. Chapter 1

_They had more beautiful voices than any human being could have; and before the approach of a storm, and when they expected a ship would be lost, they swam before the vessel, and sang sweetly of the delights to be found in the depths of the sea, and begging the sailors not to fear if they sank to the bottom. But the sailors could not understand the song, they took it for the howling of the storm._

_-The Little Mermaid, Hans Christian Andersen_

  


It was the water Kian dreamed about most nights.

Green-grey and murky, rolling over itself in an endless loop, crested by foam that shattered the sky above him.The moon an upside-down puddle, hands groping, legs kicking towards depths more infinite than the heavens could ever be.

He sank. Lifted. Fell towards the surface, the water filling his lungs, breathing out while he blinked in the darkness, the cold of the water an embrace that cradled him in cupped hands.

It whispered to him, the sea. Sang to him.

He tried to sing back, not able to find the melody through the crash of the waves.

  


*

  


It was raining, when Kian woke, though he wasn't sure it was the rain that had woken him. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was darkness. A moment later the ceiling was lit by the jagged green reflection of the window-frame, printed momentarily onto the backs of his eyes before disappearing again, leaving him blinking the flash away.

The wind sounded in pain, howling through the eaves. He didn't know when the storm had started, though it had been building all day, blackened clouds rolling in from the south like great sunken waves, sending the icy water raging up to meet them. When he'd gone to bed they'd still been lurking out over the sea.

He climbed from the bed, slid his feet into slippers to protect from the cold boards beneath them. Another flash of lightning guided him to the door, the thunder chasing it. He was left stumbling for a moment when it abated, and reached for the light-switch, swearing when it clicked uselessly, the lights staying off.

He returned to the bed for his phone, tapped the torch on. The view through the window abruptly disappeared, such as it was, painted away by the reflection of the light on the glass, the only hint to the outside world written in the raindrops sheeting down the window.

The wind moaned. He heard something shift, downstairs, and swore again. Pushed the door open and began to head down, one hand on the railing to keep his balance, the other holding the phone ahead of him.

A shadow darted out ahead of him, barrelling up the stairs.

Kian jumped back, free hand already up in defence. Then he realised, when the light fell on the face of the figure coming towards him.

“Shane! Jesus!”

“Sorry!” Shane grimaced sheepishly. “I was coming up to check on you.”

“You scared the living...” He unclenched his hand, rested it on his heart instead. It was pounding. “What are you even doing here?”

“You gave me a key.”

“For emergencies. Not so you could let yourself in and scare the living bejaysus out of me.” He sat down heavily on the step, trying to get his breathing back under control. Shane sank companionably down next to him, not looking nearly concerned enough. “Hey.”

“Hey.” The smile was bloody infuriating. “Sorry.”

“It's fine.” Shane was still smiling at him. “Okay. Fuck. Well, you can help me close the windows at least. I've gotta go check the fuse box.”

“No point. Lights are out everywhere.”

“Of course they are,” Kian sighed, defeated. Shane patted his shoulder. “I'm not a halfway house, you know. You can't just show up out of nowhere.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No...” Lightning lit Shane's face for a split-second, angles and shadow. He looked very small. Young. Kian touched his cheek, saw a half-smile that didn't help anything. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just...” He looked away. There was something else there, though Kian couldn't tell if it was just the shadows. He leaned in closer to pull his friend in, let his hand fold into a soft one that trembled slightly in his grip when he tilted it into the light. “It's not as bad as it looks.”

“Shay...” Kian bit his lip. “Who?”

“Just this guy. I don't...” He was still looking away. Kian badly wanted to look into his eyes, even if it meant not looking at the dark finger-bruises squeezed into a corded wrist. “I asked for it.” A soft sob hiccuped out of his chest. Kian held him a little tighter. “It's fine.”

“Shh...” He kissed a temple damp with rainwater. Felt Shane tremble. “You're soaked.” He was about to suggest a hot bath, but with the power off that was unlikely. “I'll get you a towel and some dry clothes.” The nod in reply was almost imperceptible, disengaged. He wouldn't fight it if Kian insisted, though that didn't mean enthusiasm. “Come upstairs.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“You terrify me,” Kian chuckled. Shane smirked. “I'll check the windows. Head up.”

“I already checked them.” Kian looked at him in surprise. “Kitchen one was open a crack, so I shut it. You might want to check the shed in the morning. I think a couple of shingles have come free again.” He looked up, something pleading in his eyes, looking for someone to say that he'd done the right thing. Kian ran a hand through wet hair, smoothing it back down. Shane pressed into his touch. “Is that okay? I can go check it now if you...”

“It's fine. Thank you.” A nervous smile darted at Shane's mouth. Kian kissed it gently. Their foreheads leaned together. “What am I going to do with you?” The answer was interrupted by the lights sputtering suddenly back on. They both looked up in surprise. “That's better,” Kian laughed. “Hot bath?”

Shane stood without a word and began to climb the stairs.

Kian sighed and followed.

  


*

  


Kian wasn't sure what his first memory of Shane was, exactly. It was hard to tell at that age, everything a muddled soup of time and confusion, though he did know his clearest memory. They'd been ten, sat on a stoop outside the foster home where they'd met, Kian with scraped knees beneath the hems of his shorts and Shane leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky.

It had been a fine day. Kian couldn't remember how long he'd been there, though it couldn't have been long. Shane had been there longer. There were six of them, in the old house, under the care of a woman and her husband. He couldn't remember their faces, now. Couldn't remember a lot of the faces. Shane, though, he remembered.

“I know a story,” he'd said.

Kian had looked over. Shane told good stories. Some of them Kian had already known, about glass slippers and magic lamps, though when Shane told them they were different. More violent, somehow. People always got their comeuppance in Shane's stories.

“What story?”

“It's about a mermaid. She fell in love with a human, so she went to a witch to give her a pair of legs.”

“I know. We saw the movie.” They'd gone to see it in the cinemas six months before. Kian had enjoyed it, liked the songs, though Shane hadn't seemed fussed, had watched it with a troubled frown.

“No. That was all made up. This is different.” He got a stubborn look, and Kian relented, shifting back to mirror his friend's pose.

“What happened next?”

“The witch gave her legs, but they were cursed. Every step she took was like walking on fire and glass. The witch said if she couldn't make the prince fall in love with her, the pain would never stop, that it was her punishment for falling in love with someone who wouldn't love her back.” He looked up at Kian for approval, a half-smile darting across his mouth when he realised Kian had been caught by the story, was waiting for the next part. “But he didn't love her back, because by the time she got there he'd married someone else.”

“Oh.” Kian pursed his lips. This was definitely one of Shane's stories. “So she was stuck that way forever?”

“She went down to the water to find her sisters, to ask for help,” Shane continued. “They gave her a knife and said if she could kill the prince the curse would be broken, that she'd turn back into a mermaid and be free. So she walked into his bedroom, on legs that felt like fire and glass, and stood over the prince and his new wife.”

“She killed him?”

“She lifted the knife. And then the moon caught his face, and he was as beautiful as she remembered, and she knew that even if she killed him the pain would never go away, because she'd still love him, and have to live with killing the one thing she loved, with taking her love away from someone else who loved him too.” Shane turned to look at him sadly. “So instead she went out to the balcony and stabbed the knife into her own chest.”

Kian stared in horror.

“She killed herself?”

“She fell into the sea, the knife still in her heart, and when she hit the water she turned into foam. Became part of the sea again.”

“What happened to the prince and his wife?”

“Nothing.” Shane shrugged. “They probably had babies, he became king, all that sort of stuff. It's not his story. He never even knew she was there.” He looked over, and for a moment Kian had an unexplainable urge to cry. Shane smiled back, one hand lifting to push hair out of his eyes.

“The cartoon one had a nicer ending.”

“It wasn't real, though,” Shane pointed out. “Just because it's nicer it doesn't mean it's better.”

“I guess not.” Kian huffed out a breath, looking at the strange boy next to him, the one that was quiet and sullen half the time, loud and telling jokes the rest, like two people in one body. Sometimes he'd kick and shout over something as simple as a bedtime, others he'd be the first one pitching in on chores. Kian didn't know quite what to make of him.

Sometimes he'd cry, too. Kian would hear him, in the night. The other kids pushed him. Called him soft. Sometimes Shane would fight back, but most of the time he'd just put his head down and ignore it, eyes trained on the ground until they'd get bored and go away.

“You want to go throw rocks in the pond?” Shane suggested. Kian smiled. They were both terrible at skipping stones, had given up and just started tossing them in instead, trying to make the biggest splash.

He stood up. Reached out a hand to pull Shane up too. The garden path was short, the gate creaking behind them when they pushed it open. Nobody would mind if they were gone, so long as they came back for dinner.

“Kian?” Shane's voice was soft, and when Kian looked over there was something shyly expectant in his eyes. “Do you like me?”

“Course I like you.” Kian smiled. “Why?”

“No reason.” Shane kicked at a pebble, which went skittering off the kerb and into the street. “They'll split us up, you know.” He bit his lip. Kian reached out for a moment, wrapping his fingers around a bony wrist before letting go.

“You'll still be my friend.”

“Yeah,” Shane mumbled. He looked up again. “Promise?”

Kian promised, even though he wasn't sure the world would let him keep it.

  


*

  


He made tea while Shane ran in the bath. There didn't seem much point sleeping now. It was past three in the morning, and after the events of the last ten minutes it seemed impossible to go back to bed. When he pushed into the bathroom Shane was in the tub, the bubbles piled high and starting to burst. He'd always liked bubble-bath, had Shane, was always the one to use half the bottle and leave none for the other kids.

“Thanks.” Shane took the mug carefully. Sipped. It was too bright in here, bringing out the hollows under his eyes and the bruises on his wrist, though the smile he gave Kian was genuine enough. “Too much sugar.”

“You said there wasn't enough, last time.”

“That was last time.” Shane took another sip, sinking down to let his shoulders disappear under the water. Kian leaned against the side, back to the porcelain. Not a great bathroom, the drains a bit prone to blocking, and the pipes rattled whenever he turned the taps. Still, it was his, and that was a start.

He hadn't gotten the little house on purpose, the white-washed shack at the tip of narrow spit, where the waves came hardest and gulls nested in the rocks. It was desolate stone and raging water, no place to moor a boat, though there was a sandy stretch to walk between here and the mainland, a road to drive, and that was enough, to see the lit-up shadow of the town at night.

Shane had said he was mad, should have sold it the moment it turned up in the will. Kian couldn't necessarily disagree.

Still, it was home. Something to have and rely on, after years of drifting through foster care.. He hadn't known his parents, hadn't even been sure they'd known where he was, but when the letter had come in the post, twenty-one years old and stuck in a share-flat with other misfits who had aged unhappily out of the system, he'd felt a tug of hesitant belonging.

There was no explanation, not properly, just a deed and a notice that his mother had left it. No apology for leaving him alone so long, nothing to suggest any other extended family he could turn to for answers. Just ink and paper, and a little house on the edge of the sea, weathered by spray and wind.

That had been almost a decade before. It was still a run down little shack, but he thought they had an understanding, he and the little house. A rhythm, a feeling of tentative comfort, like even after all this time he couldn't make himself believe he was allowed to stay.

“Are you staying long?”

“Not sure.” Shane took another sip of his tea. “Can I have more sugar?” Kian's raised eyebrow earned a cheeky smirk. “Kidding.” He handed out the mug, which Kian put carefully down on the cracked tiles. Shane went under, his departure announced by a rush of bubbles. He came back up blinking water out of his eyes.

“Where've you been?”

“Around.” He was being cagey. It wasn't new. “Thought I'd travel for a bit. See the world.”

“I haven't seen you in six months.”

“It takes a long time to see the world. I'm not even done yet. Still have to do the rest.”

“Is that right?” Shane shrugged. “Lots of sights?”

“Loads,” he said confidently. Kian rolled his eyes. If he was right Shane probably hadn't left Ireland, had been hanging out in a flat somewhere in Lahinch or Dundalk, probably with someone Kian wouldn't approve of. “I took lots of pictures, but then my camera got stolen before I could get them developed. Met celebrities and everything.”

“Did you now?” He was used to Shane's lies. Most of them were reasonably benign, and at least the ones that weren't were a good warning sign for when things might be going slightly off the rails. They were like Shane's stories. Interesting as long as you didn't take them too seriously. “Who were they, then?”

“You wouldn't know them.”

“Those really famous people I've never heard of?”

“Exactly. Yeah.” Shane reached for his mug again. Kian handed it to him. “I got this in a fight, you know.” He indicated the bruising on his wrist. “This lad was beating on his girlfriend in the park and I was all like 'that's not on, mate' and told him if he was going to start something with her he'd have to deal with me first.”

“Oh, right.” He saw eyes dart at him, daring him to contradict the story, to point out that it wasn't what Shane had said earlier. “You're a hero, then.”

“Exactly.” Legs kicked under the water, sending water splashing against the sides. The bubbles were almost all gone. “I'll stay for a little while, if you want. I was only going to hang out for a couple of days, but seeing as you missed me I can extend my stay?”

“Can you? That'd be brilliant.” He stood, put both their mugs on the sink counter, then reached out a hand to help Shane out of the tub and onto the slippery floor. Handed him a towel. When he was wrapped up Kian pulled him into a hug, felt hands clutch carefully at his back, the shape of his friend warm and damp between them, the towel soaking water into his pyjama shirt.

Shane hugged him back. Kian kissed his cheek.

“Are you okay?” Shane murmured. “I can hang around longer if you're lonely, or if you need someone to talk to.”

“That'd be really nice,” Kian replied. He felt Shane nod against his shoulder. “Having a bit of trouble at the moment. Really wish I could be honest with someone.” Shane pulled away, though when he did he wouldn't look Kian in the eye. Kian brushed stringy hair out of his face. “But if I don't feel like talking I'd be happy for you to stay anyway. For company, sort of thing.”

Shane nodded, pulling his towel tighter.

“When did you get so fucked up?”

“Not fucked up.” He smiled gently, saw a wary gaze peer up from under lowered lashes. “Just having a hard run. It'll be okay.” Shane didn't make any sign of agreeing. “I'm glad you're here.”

“Me too,” Shane whispered. Then he looked up, eyes hopeful. “Got any food?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

_With that she became bitterly angry and threw him against the wall with all her might. "Now you will have your peace, you disgusting frog!"_  
_But when he fell down, he was not a frog, but a prince with beautiful friendly eyes._  
 _-The Frog King, Wilhelm & Jacob Grimm_

  


Kian had never hated the water.

It was hard to say how he felt about it, exactly. He wasn't afraid of it, not especially. It was there, skirting the rocks, practically surrounding his world. There was something about it that had always drawn him. This raging, crashing beast that battered itself over and over against the world, fingers creeping along the sand and islands cresting its back. Beautiful and monstrous in equal measure.

He liked to watch it. Sit at the bedroom window and imagine the little house was rocking in it like a boat, the suck and push of the sea guiding their course.

“Swim?” Shane teased.

“Funny.” Kian looked up. Not much grew, out here in the little garden ringed by white stone, except the occasional rough tangle of stringy grass and patchy wildflowers. Shane had tried to grow geraniums once, on one of his extended stays, though they'd died before they'd even budded.

“One of these days you're going to have to learn.”

“Am I?” He looked out at the scrubby strip leading to the surf's edge, a meandering path that blossomed into a patch of sandy beach that felt like an afterthought. It was calmer today, the sun painting the choppy surface with silvers and blues. “I'm not doing it out there. I'd like to live until dinner.”

“We'll go to the pool, then.”

“No thanks.” He dropped his sunglasses down over his eyes. It wasn't that he was frightened of the water. There was just something about it, something that had always made him feel like there was no place for him in there. It was majestic, dangerous, like an animal in the zoo. Better seen from a safe distance, though he suspected he was the one in the cage a lot of the time, watching something enormous from a tiny vantage point. “You're not teaching me, anyway.”

“Why not? I'm a brilliant swimmer.”

“Remember when you taught me how to ride a bike?”

“It worked, didn't it?”

“You shoved me down a hill,” Kian laughed. Shane shrugged, smirking.

“It worked, didn't it?” he repeated. Kian rolled his eyes. “You didn't break any bones or anything. Absolute success. Anyway, you were ten. It was bloody shameful that you weren't riding a bike yet.”

“Nobody'd taught me.”

“That's why you've got me.” Shane flopped down to lay beside him on the grass. “Swimming next, then basic arithmetic. All the stuff you were supposed to learn twenty years ago.” He looked up. “It's pretty today.” Kian smiled, but didn't comment. “You don't even have to go all the way in. Just a paddle.”

“We're still having this argument?”

“Been having it for two decades. Why stop now?” Shane folded his arms behind his head. Kian shook his own. Shane had never understood. Kian wasn't reluctant much, would say yes to most anything, but the sea had always been a hard no. He'd sit on the edge of a pool to dangle his legs in the water, and showers were fine, but there was something wrong about being in it, something sucking and choking that made him recoil before the breakers even reached his knees.

They stayed in the garden for a while, laid on the grass and looking at a sky patchy with clouds. It was easy, talking to Shane. Listening to tall tales and laughing over small things. Shane was beautiful when he was happy. His eyes danced, hands gesturing while he spun a story that probably only had passing resemblence to the truth. Kian would have to be back at work the next day, but for now this was comfortable.

They didn't talk about why Shane was back. Kian didn't ask. It was enough that Shane was here.

  


*

  


It was early the next morning when Kian kissed Shane's sleeping forehead, grabbed his satchel from the hook by the door, and headed out to the car.

It wasn't a long drive, into town, though it was a pretty one. Up the sandy belt of scrub that connected him to the mainland and then along the coast, the sea on his right, the fields on his left, and he in the middle, cutting a line between both, feeling like he was able to see into two completely different worlds at once, depending on where he turned.

The little shop was closed when he pulled up, though there was already someone sat on the front step, waiting for him to show up, apparently. He climbed out, fishing for his keys.

“You're early.”

“Yeah.” Bryan handed him a coffee. Kian took it gratefully. “It was that kind of morning, you know? Woke up early, went for a run, and by the time I was showered and sorted it was only seven, so I figured...” He gestured at the cup in Kian's hands.

“Next one's on me,” Kian promised. The lights came on fitfully, the one above the door flickering slightly until it steadied. Kian made a note to check the bulb again. It was always going out.

The store always looked strange in the mornings. He wasn't sure what it was. The artificial light, maybe, or the fact that for once there were no customers filling it, getting in the way and talking too loudly. It was quiet except for Bryan, who was already making for the counter, winding between the racks of tennis balls and kneepads. Kian headed to the office to sort out the accounts for the day.

It wasn't a bad job. He'd been here for almost six years, working at the little sporting equipment store in town, had been manager for three. It was steady, was the best thing about it. In at seven-thirty to set up, home by seven at the latest. The staff were mostly good craic, and the salary was comfortable enough to pay the bills.

Bryan had only been there for a year or so. Nice lad, hard worker, though a bit prone to chatting too long to customers who weren't worth the commission.

He sorted the money, checked over the sales figures, and an hour later was opening the doors. Bryan looked up from where he was tidying a display.

“Watch out. Morning rush.”

“Yeah, right,” Kian laughed. The street outside was dead. They probably wouldn't pick up until ten at least, though with the school holidays on he was expecting a little more traffic, stocking up for whatever afterschool activity the kids were like to have lost interest in by October. It was just he and Bryan until eleven, and that was probably stretching it. “Good weekend?”

“Fine. Went to my kid's basketball game.”

“Any good?”

“It was nine year olds,” Bryan chuckled. “It was a good laugh watching the parents lose the run of themselves when they didn't agree with the referee. Like, maybe it was a bad call, but that kid's picking his nose and facing the wrong direction, so I don't know that we're headed for glory regardless.” Kian shook his head, laughing. “How about you? Anything interesting?”

“Not really.” The bell over the door jangled, and they paused for Kian to say hello to a customer and ask if he needed any help. He didn't, made a beeline for the martial arts equipment and settled in to stare at shin-pads. “Got a mate staying for a bit, so we hung out.”

“How long's he staying?”

“Dunno.” He really didn't. Shane came and went like the wind. Would stay for months sometimes, less than a day others. Kian generally didn't know where he was unless he was directly in sight. “He's a bit of a drifter. Just kind of shows up.”

“That's not inconvenient?”

“Not really.” The customer looked like he was heading back over, but before Kian could make it to the tills he'd swerved and was looking at pool noodles. Kian turned back to Bryan. “You know those friends that are kind of like family and also kind of a pain in the arse at the same time?” Bryan's smirk indicated that he did. “We grew up together.”

“What, like at school?”

“Sort of.” Bryan knew a little of his background, had asked him the year before what he was doing for Christmas, and when Kian had said probably just having a quiet one at home, there had been the obvious question about whether his family minded.

He didn't tell people, generally. It wasn't that he was ashamed, but there were only a few standard reactions to that sort of information. There was pity, of course, or the awkward joke about how he was lucky because _my_ family's completely mental. And Kian would laugh along, reminding himself that they didn't know. Couldn't know what it had been like. Not just not having a family, but not having anything; no anchor, no certainty that this was where he belonged.

But while he didn't really talk about being alone, he never spoke about the time before that. He didn't remember it much himself, but at night when he had the drowning-dreams it made it feel even more unreal, something he couldn't describe to anyone else.

His screaming had alerted the postman. Just old enough to walk but not old enough to do anything close to taking care of himself. Half-starved and filthy, left in the little house on his own for almost three days.

He didn't remember. Had expected to, when he'd walked back in the door eighteen years later, but there were only whispers that reflected what he'd been. Just the little house and the waves beating against the rocks and a sense that someone had been here, with a soft voice and a caring touch.

She'd never come back. A ghost, apparently. The police had looked, and Kian had spent the rest of his childhood years waiting for a knock on the door of whatever house he was in at the time, sure one day his mother would be standing there, smiling and crying and asking where he'd been, because she'd gotten lost on the way back home.

“You got this in pink?”

“Er...” Kian shook himself, realised the customer was stood in front of him, a mouthguard held in one hand. “Child's size?” The man nodded. Probably for a daughter starting Tae Kwon Do, based on the small white uniform in his other hand. “Bryan, do you...?” He caught the plastic packet that came sailing through the air. “Cheers!” he called out, then turned back to the man. “Ring this up for you?”

The rest of the day passed slowly. It was dark when he locked up and ambled back down to the car. Bryan waved absently on the way to the bus-stop, and Kian waved back, slid in, and was on the road before Bryan was out of the parking lot.

Shane was on the sofa when he got in, watching television. The keys went in the bowl near the door with a clatter, the satchel back on it's hook. He sank down, a groan leaving him.

“Good day, dear?”

“If we're playing that game, I'm going to ask if dinner's ready,” Kian shot back. Shane smirked. “What did you do today? If you weren't slaving in the kitchen.”

“Not much. Slept.” Kian nodded. “I broke your weird frog thing. Sorry.”

“Oh, er...” The little ceramic frog near the door. He'd gotten it at a penny raffle fundraising for the local school. “That's fine. It was an ugly frog.”

“I liked it.”

“Why'd you break it, then?” he teased. Shane didn't smile, just shrugged and looked down at his lap. “It's okay. I wasn't attached to it. It was just a thing.” That didn't seem to make it better. “You want a hug?”

“Yeah.” Shane slid over, let himself be wrapped up. Kian kissed his hair. He was doing the thing again, where he got gruff and a little defensive, usually because he was turning a hundred things over in his head, none of which made any sense out loud.

“Do you want dinner, actually? I can order in?”

“Not really hungry.” Shane had already closed his eyes. That was the other thing he did, as though sleeping through whatever was wrong was the better alternative.

“You've lost weight.”

“Mm.” When Shane opened his eyes he was looking in the other direction. “Do you remember that time we snuck out and got drunk in the park?”

“Which time?”

“Yeah,” Shane chuckled. “No, it was when you were with that family, the one with the dogs, and I was spinning my wheels at the group home.” Kian shrugged. He did, sort of. He'd been twelve or so, had been taken on by a couple with two other kids, though it hadn't worked out, and he'd ended up in residential care for the first time nine months later, along with Shane, who was happy to show him what it was like being on the wrong end of adoptable and left to the state to manage.

“Why you asking?”

“No reason. Just...” There was something brittle in Shane's smile. “I guess I just think about things, sometimes. Like, it was shit, but at least we had each other.” He tucked a few strands of hair behind his ear. Kian didn't know quite what to say. “I remember laughing a lot.”

Kian pulled him closer, saw eyes flick towards him, then dart as quickly away. “I'm going to make a sandwich in a minute. Want one?”

“If you're making one.” It was dismissive, like if Kian wasn't then Shane was just as happy going hungry.

“If you're sad again you can talk to me,” Kian urged. Shane shook his head.

“Doesn't help.” He pulled his knees to his chest.

“What does?”

“Nothing, really. Being here doesn't hurt, though. It's... less shit.” He breathed out slowly, a shudder infecting it. “I can stay for a bit. I'm not... I mean, it's not like I have a job or house anything, so nobody's expecting me somewhere else.” He laughed brokenly. Kian rested his chin on the arms folded on top of Shane's knees, nudging into a stubbly cheek. Saw half a smile. “Sorry. Do you want me here or are you just being nice?”

“I'm never nice,” Kian promised. Shane snorted. “It's fine. Stay.”

“I'm sorry I broke your frog.”

“It's fine,” he said again. Shane nodded. “I'm going to go have a hot shower. Why don't you make us a couple of sandwiches and we can have them on the back porch. Get us a couple of beers as well.” He stood up. “If you're going to stay, you can at least pull your weight.”

“Slave-driver.”

“Moocher.” He picked up a cushion just to smack Shane with it, laughing when his friend giggled and put his arms up to defend himself.

Kian left him holding the cushion and trotted upstairs, trying to avoid the urge to look over his shoulder and make sure Shane was still smiling.

  


*

  


They didn't stay up late. Kian had work the next day and Shane was looking sleepy already, yawning into his beer while they sat on the back porch, watching the moon rise over the sea. He made sure Shane was sorted on the fold-out and headed up to bed.

He wasn't entirely sure what to do. Never really knew. Shane was hard to judge at the best of times. Where one thing might set him off laughing, the same thing two days later could lead to an hour of crying, or throwing things. It had been hard for him to find a home, when he'd been younger. Maybe people thought they were being charitable, taking on the troubled kid with the sullen face and the short temper, but as he got older there were less offers, less chances for a teenaged boy.

Kian got it. The opportunities dried up more or less the moment you left the cute phase and started getting pimples and hair in weird places. People wanted babies, not older kids who compounded all of the normal pubescent issues with being from broken backgrounds. None of them were well-adjusted, not really, and Shane was barely calibrated at the best of times.

He did wonder if the frog had broken accidentally, or if it had been something else. If Shane had smashed it in a fit of anger and then realised too late what he'd done.

Kian didn't blame him. It was just a stupid frog, after all.

He could hear Shane, pottering around downstairs. He'd looked tired, but Kian suspected he wouldn't sleep for a while. He tended to pace, had done it since they were small, like he could walk off whatever was keeping him awake.

Kian pulled the blanket up, closed his eyes, and turned into the pillow, the moonlight throwing long shadows across the room, the pad of Shane's footsteps creaking through the house.

  


 


	3. Chapter 3

_It shall come to pass on a summer's day,_ **  
** _When the sun shines hot on every stone,_ **  
** _That I shall take my little young son,_ **  
** _And teach him for to swim the foam._ **  
** _\- The Great Silkie of Sule Skerrie, traditional Orkney folksong_

Kian wasn't sure what to do with Shane, over those next two weeks. He wanted to ask, wasn't sure what questions to start with or even whether he wanted the answers. Shane drifted. Was silent, sometimes, so talkative others that Kian was sure he was going to start interrupting himself. That was fine as well. He was always happy to listen to Shane talk.

It was an early Saturday morning that he woke up to Shane curled up in the chair near the bedroom window, staring out at the sea.

“Hey,” he croaked. He'd jumped, a little, when he'd opened his eyes and blearily realised someone else was in the room, though he'd recognised Shane within a breath. He rubbed his eyes with one hand. Shane didn't turn around. “What you doing?”

“Not much.” He nodded towards the water. “You've got seals.”

“Do I?” They werent uncommon. There was a small run of rocks that surfaced just off the coast, about fifty feet from shore, and they liked to sun themselves there sometimes. There were otters and dolphins as well, though not nearly as often. The seals tended to congregate more around the other end of town, near the marina, scavenging from fishermen and arguing with the gulls for scraps. “How many?”

“Three. Brown ones.” Kian nodded. “I ever tell you about the selkie wife?”

“I think I know this one.” He turned on his side to watch Shane properly, though he wasn't committed yet to climbing out of bed. “A girl who can turn into a seal, right?” It was an old folk-tale, one he knew the gist of, though not the specifics. Just another Irish faery myth, like leprechauns.

Shane shifted in the chair, though he was still looking out the window. Dressed in his pyjamas, his robe untied and hanging open around his hips. Waiting for Kian to ask, probably.

“Tell me the story?”

“If you want.” A smile tweaked at his mouth. “The selkie aren't like mermaids. They're not half-human, they're seals in the water, though they like to come on land sometimes, and when they do they take off their seal-skins and walk around like people.” Kian propped himself up on one elbow. It was grey outside. He couldn't see the water from here, but the sky was blanketed with pale clouds.

“Like a costume?”

“Yeah, sort of.” Shane shifted again, up onto his knees, elbows rested on the window sill while he stared out at the water. “One day a selkie woman came out to sun herself on the beach, and while she was laying there naked, a fisherman took her seal-skin and hid it so she couldn't change back. She was under his control, then, and was forced to marry him and live in his cottage.”

“He's the villain, then?”

“No. Not really. You see, after a while they began to fall in love with each other. They had children, a boy and a girl, and they were happy together, in the cottage with their family.”

“It wasn't really her choice though.”

“It's never our choice who we fall in love with,” Shane pointed out. “But you're right. She may have loved him, and the children, but she was still a prisoner, and as much as he tried to make her happy, every day when he came home from fishing he'd see her sitting at the window, staring out at the water, the saddest look on her face. And he'd come inside and kiss her, and ask what was wrong, and she'd tell him it was nothing, that she had everything she needed and there was no reason to be sad.

“The children grew up. They loved the water, would play for hours at the shore. Seals would swim up to them, let them ride on their backs, though when the fisherman found out he shouted at his wife and said she wasn't to let them near the water any more, and though they cried he was just too frightened of losing them.

“On the children's seventh birthday, he came home to find her sat at the window again, staring at the sea, and he finally couldn't take it any more. He went inside, took her seal-skin from it's hiding place, and told her she was free, if she wanted, but that if she loved him he wanted her to stay, because he couldn't bear the thought of a life without her.

“She took the seal-skin, nodded, and went back to her room. Stayed there. For a week. Two weeks. He didn't disturb her. He went away fishing, came back. She cared for the children while he was gone, and when he came home he fed them and put them to bed, but didn't see his wife, except for when he'd bring the boat in and see her sat at the window, and he'd wave, and she'd wave back.”

“This is going to have a sad ending, isn't it?” Kian interrupted. He could feel it already. Shane's stories usually did. He could see Shane's face, reflected in the window, saw a smirk drift across it. He wondered if the seals were still there, sunning themselves on the rocks.

“One morning he woke up and her door was open. He searched the house, but she wasn't there, and neither were the children. He ran outside, shouting for them, and heard his daughter calling back. He found them at the beach, and realised what she'd been doing sat in her room for two weeks. She'd cut her seal-skin, and sewn three new ones, one for herself and two smaller ones, for her children.”

“There was enough for all of them?”

“She's a magic seal-woman,” Shane reasoned. “Anyway, she stretched it as far as she could, but she'd run out at the end, and had to give her own left flipper to her son. The father ran down the beach, shouting to them, trying to convince her to stop. He begged her to leave his children, that she could go, but that she couldn't take his children too

“He fell to his knees, crying. Pleading and trying to hold his children, and her heart broke for him, though she was determined to leave. She knew their daughter was his favourite, so she agreed to leave her, to only take their son, and she helped him into his suit, and they disappeared into the waves, leaving her daughter and husband behind.”

“They never saw them again?” Kian asked. Shane shook his head.

“They never did. Though he looked every day while he was out fishing, for the seal with the missing flipper. He hid the daughter's skin, and after a while the daughter forgot what had happened, though sometimes he'd see her staring out the window, watching the seals play, and knew that if she found it again he'd lose her forever. That she'd go to the sea and never come back.”

He trailed off. It took Kian a moment to realise that was the end of the story. Shane tugged his robe tighter, sinking down into the chair to face him, the glow of the cloaked sun sending soft shadows across the room.

“Are the seals still out there?”

“Yeah.” Shane nodded. “Saw a dolphin too, but it was only for a second.”

“Don't suppose you've got any stories about dolphins?”

“A couple.” He pushed himself out of the chair. “I'm going to go make coffee. You want one?” Kian nodded. The conversation was apparently over. The door shut behind Shane and Kian lay back down, staring at the ceiling for a moment to collect his thoughts.

Then he grabbed his robe and headed downstairs to find his friend.

 

*

 

Kian had been fourteen the first time he'd been frightened of Shane.

It was a guilty feeling, now. He understood it, of course he did. A child, himself, Shane a year older and both of them in the group home, becoming increasingly sure that the great hope of a real family was out of their reach. Still, they had each other, and that was more family than either of them had ever known.

He knew a little of Shane's background. More than he knew of some of the other boys in the home. They were all friends, sort of, or at least civil enough to spend time in the same house without throwing punches. There were staff around the clock, most of whom were okay as well, and a social worker who came in three times a week to make sure none of them were crazy or being mistreated.

Kian wasn't crazy, as far as he could tell. Some of the other boys he was less sure about.

Shane was... unstable.

Kian didn't mind. Shane was fine, most of the time. Funny, interesting, always had something to say about something, and they got along. Shared the same sense of humour and agreed on most things, even if sometimes Shane got a little overexcited about unimportant stuff, started ranting and having loud opinions. Usually it was funny. Kian would smile, and wait for Shane to rein himself back in, and eventually his friend would sit down, a slight blush glowing in his cheeks.

He'd been removed from his family at six years old. As they got older Kian began to suspect there were good reasons for that, if the way Shane spoke was any indication. There was something odd in the way he approached things. Sex things, especially. Kian knew he was naïve himself, but Shane wasn't. Knew more in a graphic, frank way that came across as almost violent. There were drugs, probably, definitely alcohol, and the scars on Shane's back looked like belt-marks at the very least.

Shane didn't talk about it. He just got on with things.

He was Shane.

Kian had been sitting in the living room, watching TV and working on his homework when he heard a bang from upstairs.

He looked up. The social worker was in, along with a therapist that came in once a fortnight to chat to them about how things were going. Things were going okay, all things considered. Kian was trying his best at school, though he was under no illusions about his academic abilities. Still, most of the time he was content enough. Things had certainly been worse.

Something being dropped, probably, a chair accidentally knocked over. He settled back over his book, one eye trained on the television.

There was a thump, a loud one. He saw two of the male staff head cautiously for the stairs.

There was a high-pitched shout, almost a scream. They ran.

Kian didn't know what to do. It was Shane, of course it was Shane, but he'd never heard it before, something frightened and angry and savage. There were more thumps, feet and fists colliding with walls, the sound of something being knocked over.

His feet moved without him thinking. He was halfway up the stairs when the office door slammed open, and the two staff members who'd gone to check dragged Shane out by the armpits, Kian's friend twisting and shouting between them, kicking while the therapist tried to calm him down, talking low and careful while Shane ignored her, his eyes wild and mouth set in a snarl.

He was crying. Kian covered his mouth. Realised her arm was bleeding, just above the wrist, her shirt torn. They twisted his arm and the letter opener fell from his hand.

They made Kian step aside. Dragged Shane outside.

He remembered, though. The look of fear and anger on Shane's face when he was pulled through the door, eyes begging and filled with tears, looking to Kian for some sort of futile help while he was dragged out of sight.

He'd come back two weeks later. Kian hadn't known what to say to him. Had just leaned in and hugged him tight, felt hands clench on his back and a soft sob blurt into his shoulder. Shane had been on limited privileges, more supervision, and pills that took the fire out of his eyes and made his laughs sound delayed and mechanical.

He wouldn't talk about it. Wouldn't say what had set him off. What he'd been thinking. The therapist had been replaced with a middle-aged man who was adequate at his job, though not as good as the one before had been. The other boys had whispered. Kian had ignored them. Shane had ignored everyone and shut himself in his room.

Kian had been allowed in. Slept in with him, most nights, because as frightened as he'd been he could see Shane was more scared. Scared all the time, like he was hiding from something only he could see.

 

*

 

“How's work?”

“Fine.” Kian poked at his dinner. Shane had made it, was generally a terrible chef, though he could turn out an edible dish when he put his mind to it. The chicken was cooked through at least. “Deputy manager's going on maternity leave in a couple of months, so I'll probably be doing more hours while she's gone.” He wasn't too excited about the idea. Half the time he felt like he did everything anyway, while she hid in the office or went on long lunch-breaks.

“I had a job.”

“Did you?” Shane shrugged. “What happened?”

“I quit. It was boring.” He shoved an improbably large piece of chicken breast into his mouth. “Boss was a paranoid fuckhead anyway. He kept acting like I was stealing.”

“Were you?”

“Course not.” Shane didn't seem offended by the question. Kian had asked worse, over the years. “And if I had been, he wouldn't have noticed. Dozy twat.” He reached for his glass. “It was a shite job, anyway. Who wants to stack shelves all day and talk to idiots who don't know what they're buying? No offence.”

“None taken,” Kian chuckled. “What are you going to do now, if you're not doing that?”

“Dunno. Got some money saved. Hang out here for a bit.” He looked at Kian warily. “I'm not imposing, though.” It wasn't a question. Kian suspected Shane didn't want to leave room for an answer. “I'll keep out of your way.”

“Shay...” Kian sighed. “Stay as long as you like. Of course you can.” Shane looked back at his eggs, though a relieved grimace pinched his face. “You're not in my way.” He leaned his head in one hand, looking at his friend. “I love you. You know I love you.”

“Love you too.” Shane's smile lit up the room, for the moment it lasted. “Can we go for a walk tonight?”

“Where to?”

“Just a walk.” He stood. “I'll go put on a jacket.”

“Finish your dinner first,” Kian urged. Shane sank back down, looking at his plate like he'd forgotten it was there. He did that a lot, got distracted halfway through a thought when he was hooked by another one. “We'll go for a walk after food.” He held out his glass. Shane's clinked cheerfully with his. “Are you happy?” he asked. Didn't know where the question had come from, except sometimes he had to ask, with Shane.

“Are you?”

“I'm... yeah. I guess I am.” He wasn't unhappy, anyway, though he supposed they weren't the same thing. “I'm okay, at least.”

“Then I'm okay too.” It didn't really answer the question. Shane smiled. “We're both okay. Look at us, being okay.”

“Look at us,” Kian echoed. He looked back down at his plate, realised he wasn't hungry any more. Shane hadn't picked his cutlery back up again. “Walk?”

“I'll get my jacket.” Shane dashed from the table. Kian listened to footfalls thud up the stairs and across the ceiling above his head. Laughed to himself. Shane was back down and zipping his jacket before Kian had even cleared the table. “Ready?” Shane demanded. Kian rolled his eyes.

“Ready,” he conceded. Shane grinned and headed for the door.

 

*

 

It was warmish outside, though the sea breeze always made the air feel about five degrees less than in town. Beautiful night. The moon low, a frozen yellowed pendulum that seemed to rise out of the water, sending dim coronas of green light up through the starlit sky.

The beach was quiet. He took Shane's hand as they clambered up the rocks, leaned on each other for support, and then were on the other side, where it was rough sand all the way along the spit to the main shoreline, the suck and rush of the water soothing in the darkness, Shane's hand warm in his.

“Pretty.” Shane's head was craned back, eyes fixed on the sky. Kian kept his gaze on the ground to make sure neither of them would trip, knew Shane would go stumbling into the sea if he didn't.

They were both so fixed on what they were looking at that neither of them noticed the boy before they were almost on top of him.

It was Shane who saw him first. Looked down, mouth opening to say something, when he paused, eyes narrowing and fixed on something over Kian's shoulder. Kian raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“What's that?”

“Erm...” He turned. Looked like a bundle of rubbish, cloth and driftwood, moving slightly with the breaking surf that spread around it and then back out again. “Dunno.” He stepped closer. Saw it shift again in the water fanning about an inch high around it. Shane was ahead, stepping down over the edge of the foot-high ridge they'd been strolling along.

He stepped back with a gasp. Kian tilted his head.

“What is it?” Shane was already digging out his phone.

There was a soft moan. Dark hair, clotted with wet sand.

“Shit,” he breathed. Shane was asking for an ambulance.

Kian sank to his knees and began to look for a pulse.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_...and what he found in his net was a fish —_ **  
**_no ordinary fish, but a golden fish._ **  
**_The fish begged, the fish begged and implored;_ **  
** the fish prayed in a human voice: **  
**_'Release me, set me free in the sea —_ **  
**and in return you'll receive a grand ransom, **  
** I'll grant you whatever you wish.'  
_\- A Tale of a Fisherman and a Fish, Alexander Pushkin_

  


It all happened quite quickly. It felt only seconds before blue and red lights were flickering over them, Shane waving to get the attention of the paramedics, who rushed over, a medical case in hand. Kian stepped back. The guy was breathing, at least, and there wasn't much else he could do for him.

Shane grabbed his hand. Kian squeezed it back, feeling sick.

“Is he okay?” he asked numbly. One was shining a light into unresponsive eyes, the other pulling a stretcher from the back of the ambulance.

“He's alive.” Naked, Kian could see, now all the crap was cleared away. Not clothes, like he'd thought, just debris, probably tangled around him by the surf. He was pale, bleeding in a few places, though didn't look wounded from what Kian could tell. Exposure, maybe, abrasion from the rough sand and salt-water. His lips were cracked badly, hands and feet as well. They covered him with a blanket and got him loaded up. Kian didn't know what to do.

There were more blue lights. He looked up. Saw a police car as well, off to the side to leave room for the ambulance. A couple of officers stepped out. They looked out of their element already. Shane began to chew his fingernails.

Then the doors closed and the ambulance began to trundle away into the night.

  


*

  


It was easier talking to the police with a cup of tea in his hands. Shane made a pot while Kian got them settled on the sofa, though he didn't know what else they expected him to say. They'd been walking, and apparently they'd managed to find an unidentified naked man washed up in the surf. It wasn't something he'd had to explain in detail before.

There was a detective there. Seemed in charge, had a better jacket, though Kian didn't really notice, was too busy staring into his tea and seeing blue eyes peel open, hearing thin, pained breaths that didn't seem like near enough.

“I don't know what else to tell you,” he mumbled.

“You've never seen him before?”

“No. I mean...” He shrugged. The words got lost so he trailed off instead. The detective gave him a sympathetic smile. He was youngish, maybe a little older than Kian, with blonde hair and a permanent pout. They'd cordoned off part of the beach. Weren't calling it a crime scene, apparently, just an area of interest. It felt unreal.

“You been living here long?”

“Almost ten years.” The detective was looking curiously at Shane, who had been too busy staring at his own knees to contribute much. “Shane's been staying with me for the last three weeks.”

“And your home address?”

“Don't have one,” Shane said brusquely. If the detective was surprised he did well hiding his reaction.

“No mailing address?”

“No,” Shane sighed. Kian supposed he should be concerned, Shane over the line into thirty and nothing to call his own except a shabby suitcase of clothes and a mobile phone he'd probably bought at the supermarket. He'd known Shane too long to bother with worrying. There was nothing he could do about it anyway. “Just say I live here, if you have to. I'll be visiting for a bit.”

“Okay...” The detective scribbled something down. Kian peered at his badge, not wanting to admit he'd forgotten his name already. Nicholas Byrne. He wondered if he was a Nick or a Nicky, then lost the thought when Shane's hand settled on his shoulder.

“You okay?” Shane whispered. Kian realised he was shaking.

“Yeah.” He swallowed, forced his teeth to ungrit. “Yep.” He looked at the detective. “Was he okay, at least? Do they know...?”

“I haven't heard yet.” Nicholas stood. “If I'm allowed to tell you something I'll give you a call.” Kian nodded. He supposed that was fair enough. They didn't know the guy, probably it was none of their business. “You did well, lads. If you hadn't found him it could have been much worse.” Kian swallowed. Or if they'd found him too late. Tonight had been bad enough, the idea of driving to work the next day and finding a lifeless body was sickening. “I'll keep you updated.”

He left with thanks for the tea. Kian sat back down on the sofa once the door was closed. Shane squatted at his feet, taking his hands.

“You want to talk about it?”

Kian shook his head. He didn't know what to say.

“You want something stronger?”

“Yeah,” Kian laughed, wincing at the slight hysteria in his voice. Shane kissed the back of his hand. “Fucking hell. Good thing you wanted a walk.”

“Must be psychic,” Shane agreed. He stood again. “Make it a double?”

“At least.” He leaned forward as Shane headed for the kitchen, resting his elbows on his knees. Breathed out slowly. “Fuck.” A glass pressed into his hand. He took a grateful sip, almost choked as it burned down his throat. “Jesus, Shane.”

“Thought I'd make it a triple.” Kian coughed. Studied the drink, amber liquid swilling the the bottom of a whiskey glass, a trickle of soda mixed uselessly in. Shane shrugged.

The rest went back in two large, stinging gulps. Shane settled down onto the sofa next to him, his hand on Kian's knee, though it moved around his shoulders a moment later. Kian put the glass down.

“Want me to sleep in with you?”

“Yeah,” Kian admitted. Shane kissed his hair. “But I'll have another one of those first.”

  


*

  


Bryan let out an amazed whistle, low and long. Kian had just finished telling him the story, what blurred details he could remember. He felt tired. Hadn't slept at all well the night before. Shane hadn't either, but he never really did, so instead they'd laid in bed, Shane talking quietly about nothing and Kian trying to find comfort in the presence of another person.

They'd woken up snuggled together, Kian's head in Shane's neck, arms around each other. There wasn't any embarrassment in it. They'd been through too much together to worry about a bit of a cuddle and some morning wood.

“Lucky you were there.”

“Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Hopefully he's okay.”

“You haven't heard?” Kian shook his head. “You know who he was?”

“Not a clue.” A customer had just walked in the door. Bryan made a beeline, stalking over and looking purposeful while Kian stood blankly in front of a half-stacked shelf, two boxes of stock at his feet.

The day passed slowly. By the time Kian was packing up he was asleep on his feet, ready to go home and try to get the rest he'd missed out on the night before. He slid into the car, turned on the radio, and honked at Bryan, who waved back.

“ _...Police are asking for assistance in identifying an unknown man who was found on Leanan Spit last night and is currently in stable condition. He is five foot eleven with dark brown hair and blue eyes. If you have any information about missing persons, please contact..._

There was a van parked in front of the house when he arrived, which was odd. He pulled in behind it, wondering who they were and if they could move the hell out of his drive. Tradespeople maybe. He rounded the van, looking for a phone-number he could call, because he sure as hell hadn't called a plumber or repairman.

He blinked when he realised it was the local television station.

There was nobody in the van. He headed numbly up to the front door, which wasn't locked, and peered inside.

“Kian. Hey!” Shane looked up from the armchair. There was a woman in a pantsuit on the sofa facing him, two lads setting up lights in his living room.

“Er...” Kian stepped inside. He didn't like the way the woman was looking at him, too cheerful, but with something pointed hiding beneath it. “What's all this?”

“They came to ask about the guy,” Shane explained. “He doesn't know who he is, apparently. Amnesia. Like in one of those TV movies.” He looked nice, Kian realised, was dressed in one of Kian's good shirts and a pair of black trousers, looked like he'd thrown it together in a hurry. “They wanted to ask about him.”

“Oh. Well... I guess that's fine.” He wasn't sure, but there was no stopping it now. Shane looked excited. Kian supposed it was sort of exciting, objectively, but he was finding it hard to see it that way, especially when all he wanted was a shower and his bed.

They asked if they could interview him. He said no. Thanks. But then he saw Shane deflate slightly and sighed, trying to avoid the urge to order everyone out of his house so he could have a cup of tea.

It was over relatively quickly. The questions were basic. You found a dead guy who wasn't actually dead. How was that? It was weird, and sort of upsetting, and he wanted to cry. Instead he found himself saying what he'd always heard other people say on the telly, that he'd just done what anyone would do, and he hoped the lad was okay. Shane began spinning some utter bollocks about just having this weird feeling, you know? That it was fate or something, that something had told him to go for that walk, though Kian knew very well it had just been Shane beging impulsive and he'd been staring at the sky anyway.

They left after a bit. Shane plonked down beside him after he let them out, grinning. Kian smiled weakly back.

“We're going to be on telly!”

“We are,” Kian sighed. Shane tilted his head.

“That's exciting, isn't it?”

“It is. I'm sorry, Shay. I'm really tired.” He touched his friend's cheek, felt the smile swell under his hand. “Hey. How was your day?”

“S'okay. Slept for ages, and then the TV people showed up. I borrowed your clothes. Sorry.”

“It's fine. You look nice.” Shane looked pleased at that, at least. “I'm going to have something to eat and go to bed.” Shane nodded. “You staying up?”

“It's only eight,” Shane pointed out. “Might watch TV. Can I eat the rest of the ice-cream?” Kian agreed that he could. “They gave me money for the interview. A hundred euro.” Kian blinked in surprise.

“Oh.”

“You want half?”

“You keep it,” Kian decided. Shane could probably use it, though Kian doubted he was going to spend it on anything worthwhile.

He suspected that was the answer Shane had wanted to hear. He didn't begrudge him for it. Fifty euro wasn't much, to Kian. To Shane it made a difference. He'd considered seeing if he could get Shane a job at the store, if he was going to be around for a while, but had decided not to. Maybe it was shitty, but Shane's behaviour reflected on him, and his friend wasn't reliable at the best of times. Kian didn't want to be the one responsible for whatever fuck-up Shane orchestrated on the job, whatever shifts he didn't turn up for. Whatever money might go missing.

Maybe Shane wouldn't. Maybe their friendship was worth more than that. But he knew Shane as well. Knew it wouldn't be his fault, that there'd be a hundred horrible, sensible reasons he'd had no choice in doing whatever he decided to do. He was sad. He was too tired. He was just trying to...

He'd seen the pill-bottles in Shane's bag, the ones that had prescription labels on them in other peoples' names. He wasn't going to comment. It was better than what Shane could have been doing, and at least if he was stocked up and had a little cash on him he wasn't like to do anything reckless.

Maybe it was enabling, but Kian loved him too much to risk hating him over something as stupid as that.

“What you thinking? You've gone all quiet.”

“Tired,” he said again. Shane was watching him earnestly. Shane cared, was the hardest thing about it. Cared so much he broke Kian's heart. “I love you,” he murmured. Shane's eyes softened.

“I'll leave you some ice-cream.”

“Thanks.” He wanted to heave himself up. Couldn't find the energy. “It's your birthday in five weeks. You still going to be around?” Shane shrugged. Probably not an exciting one, thirty-one, but Kian had missed thirty. Shane had missed his, come to that, had shown up two weeks after. They were passing the end of May, now, summer about to start. “I'm not going to bother about dinner, actually. Might just go to bed.” Shane nodded. “Come sleep in with me when you're ready, if you want. It's better than the sofa.” He wanted Shane there, suddenly. Needed someone there.

“Okay. Might be up for a while.” Kian nodded, relieved.

Shane helped him up, walked him up the stairs to bed. It was the first time he'd been tucked in in years, but there was nothing wrong with that. Shane kissed his forehead.

“Night, Ki.”

“Night Shay,” he murmured back, and turned into the pillow just as Shane flicked the light off, his shape silhouetted in the narrowing hallway light.

  


*

  


He woke with Shane beside him, tangled in the sheets and facing the other direction. He slept like an octopus, did Shane, limbs everywhere and tangled into improbable positions, clinging unconsciously to everything including Kian. There was a foot hooked around his ankle, and when he shifted it hooked tighter, Shane letting out a soft grunt.

He lay still. Didn't have to be at work today, thank god. It was almost nine in the morning. More than twelve hours sleep. He didn't know if he felt better or not, a bit groggy and everything aching, but at least he felt rested.

He wasn't sure the last time he'd had someone else in his bed. Certainly not in the last six months, though it had been maybe five years since he'd had anything he could come to close to calling a boyfriend. It sounded a bit sad, out loud, but he couldn't say he'd been trying, particularly. His last therapist had wanted to talk about it, when he'd been bothered to go, had said lovely things like 'fear of abandonment' and 'intimacy'. It made clinical sense, he supposed, but he thought it was maybe more that he'd gotten too used to being self-sufficient, that someone else's presence, someone else's needs, felt almost stifling, like there was only so much of him and he didn't have extra pieces to give.

It had served him well enough, in childhood. The constant feeling of rejection and loneliness had only hurt as long as he'd allowed it. Other people were other peoples' problem.

He was rolling over, eyes still shut while he huffed into Kian's chest and tossed an arm across him.

“Hey,” Kian whispered. Shane grumbled something back.

They got up, eventually. Shane burnt some toast while Kian had a tidy. The news people had pulled the rug out of alignment with all their lights and shuffling, so he tugged it back into place and vacuumed. It felt better to have a tidy house. More like he was in control of things.

“Kian.” He looked up. Shane had just come in from the porch, was holding the paper in the other hand. “Check it out.”

“What... oh.” It unrolled, and Kian was caught for a moment, by a picture of a man about his age, dark hair and blue eyes, smiling bemusedly at the camera from a hospital bed. “What's it say?”

“Erm...” Shane peered at the front page. “They still don't know who he is. Mystery man found on beach by local, blah blah blah...” He tilted his head. “Apparently they think he was out there for a while. Water in his lungs, malnutrition and exposure.”

“What, just floating around?”

“Dunno. Continued on page three...” He shuffled through. “Right. He was wrapped in part of a boat sail, so they think maybe he fell overboard, or was in a life-boat or something, but there's no record of any accidents in the area. The police say they are investigating all possibilities...”

“So they don't know anything.”

“Not a fucking thing,” Shane said cheerfully, “though it took them about nine columns to say it.” He passed the newspaper over. Kian peered at the picture. He looked sweet. Confused. A brooding, frightened look that didn't quite jibe with the smile he was giving the camera.

“Poor guy.”

“You really think he's got amnesia? Maybe he's faking it.”

“Why would you fake it?”

“Dunno. On the run, maybe. Can't be that guy the mob are looking for, because he doesn't know who he is.”

“The mob?” Kian laughed. Shane shrugged. “Doubt it. No.” He looked at the picture. “He looks scared. Must be awful, having no idea who you are. Just being all by yourself one day, and nobody to...” He trailed off, realised Shane was staring at him. “What?”

“Sound like someone you know?”

“I was a kid. It's not the same.” He closed the paper. Put it down. “You want to do anything today?”

Shane opened his mouth to reply.

The phone rang.

“I'll get it.” Shane picked it up. “Hello?” He pulled a face. “Sorry, who are you? No thanks, we don't want any.” He hesitated. “Oh! Oh... erm... just a sec.” His hand went over the mouthpiece. “It's the newspaper. They want to know if they can do an interview. About...” He gestured at the paper on the coffee table. “You know.”

“No thanks.”

“Okay.” Shane turned back to the phone. “No, we don't want to...” Something bright and guilty snuck into his gaze. “How much? Erm...” His eyes darted towards Kian. “Okay. Sure. Yeah. No, just me.” Kian raised an eyebrow. “Brilliant. See you in a bit.” He put the phone down.

“You said yes?”

“They offered me five hundred to do the interview,” Shane explained, a little breathless. “Five hundred, Ki. That's...” He grinned. “They're coming round in an hour. Can I borrow one of your shirts?”

“Yeah, but...” Shane was already dashing up the stairs, feet pounding a drumbeat that darted across the ceiling above Kian's head, down the upstairs hallway.

Kian sighed.

Right.

 


	5. Chapter 5

“ _...the boy Icarus was standing nearby, unaware that he was facing danger, now with a beaming face was capturing his feathers which the wandering air has moved.  
\- Metamorphosis: Daedalus and Icarus, Ovid_

  
  


It seemed a lot of people were in and out of Kian's house over the next few days. Their picture appeared in the newspaper after he grudgingly let Shane pull him over to pose, and the police came back to ask questions Kian wasn't sure how to answer, odd details he'd never thought to notice. The area of the beach they'd found him on was still cordoned off with police tape, but with the weather and the waves Kian didn't know what they expected to find apart from a lot of sand and maybe a confused crab.

He kept getting calls at work, too. Mostly from the press, and not just local as the story of the mystery man of the spit turned into a national story, one of those novelty bits people would probably wonder about for a few weeks and then lose interest in. It was frustrating, seeing Bryan pick up the phone at the register and then sigh, roll his eyes, and motion Kian over. He could hardly help it, would hang up on them as soon as he realised.

It wasn't just the news. Snoopy locals on the phone, a couple of people who even came in wanting to ask about it, as though he could offer anything more than what he'd already said to the press. He got two calls from some conspiracy website, and suddenly his email was flooded with strange messages about cover-ups and other crap.

Shane took it in stride. Kian got the feeling he was enjoying it, almost. Wanted to tell Shane to stop picking up the phone, to stop playing into all the mess. He couldn't do that, though. Shane was an adult, and as much as he hated to admit it, Kian did wonder if it wasn't just the money that was making him say yes every time someone called. If it was the attention as well. Somebody who wanted to listen to what he had to say so much they were willing to pay for the privelege.

The owner of the store called to tell him to go home on Wednesday afternoon, that until all this stopped to not bother coming in. He wanted to protest. To say the calls would still happen anyway. But he was exhausted, and going home to sleep sounded better than arguing and trying to avoid his new fans.

Shane was on the phone when he got in. Kian hesitated, then went to change into his pyjamas without comment, shaking his head when he realised what Shane was talking about. Again.

The door creaked open just as he was shrugging on his robe.

“Hey,” Shane said. Kian nodded. “You're home early. Everything okay?”

“Fine.” There was no point saying anything. “It was quiet, so I figured...” He shrugged. Shane was still lurking in the doorway. “Shane...” He bit his lip. “Can we turn our phones off tonight? Please? I'm just...” He ran a hand over his face, saw Shane's own fall in a way that wasn't just concern. “I'm really tired and I don't want to talk to anyone.”

“Oh.” Shane's mouth pursed. “I... yeah. I guess so.” He tilted his head. “Are you really okay? You look a bit pale.”

“Tired,” Kian repeated. He reached out a hand. Shane's fell into it, squeezing as Kian pulled him closer and into a hug. Relaxed slightly when he felt arms around his waist, warmth against his skin. Shane kissed his cheek. He stayed there for a long time, until it felt like it was getting weird, and then a little longer after that. When he let go Shane was looking at him curiously.

“Do you want something to eat?”

“Okay.” He wasn't really hungry. Hadn't eaten all day.

Shane left the room with a glance back over his shoulder.

Kian went to look for his slippers.

  
  


*

  
  


It was awkward, watching Shane that night. Kian hated to think it, but his behaviour reminded him him an awful lot of a boy in their old home.

Kevin had been a bright kid. A few years younger than them, surrendered to the system after his parents hadn't been able to deal with his obvious drug problems any more. It was sad. Thirteen when he'd arrived, already suffering under the twitching rollercoaster of high and withdrawal. He was loud, hard to predict, occasionally charming, and very good at talking his way out of trouble.

He was also a fidgeter.

Kian hadn't understood first hand, but he'd known it was to do with the drugs. Of course it was. Even if he was up, even if he'd somehow gotten a hit, Kevin would fidget. Chew his nails. Jiggle his knees. Toss a ball from hand to hand, bottom lip gnawed over and under in an endless, reddening roll. He'd change the TV channel a hundred times before settling back on the same program, then go to look in the fridge, walking back and forth from the kitchen in an infinite, futile loop.

He'd still been there when Kian had left, no closer to getting clean, no closer to anything resembling stability. They hadn't been close. Kian hadn't thought about him in years.

Now he felt like he was back in the house, watching Kevin march in and out of the kitchen.

“What are you looking for?” he said finally. Shane paused. There was a carrot in his hand, a bite taken out of the end. Kian didn't think Shane had really wanted it, had just grabbed it for something to do.

“Dunno.” He sat back down. Kian saw his eyes dart to the phone on the wall, which had been silent since Kian had unplugged the jack. Their own phones were in the study on charge, switched to silent.

Kian turned on the television, thinking maybe it would distract Shane. And for a while, it did. Then the news came on, and Kian saw Shane's eyes dart to the phone.

“Why don't we go for a walk?” Kian suggested. He didn't really want to. It was cold outside and he was exhausted, but anything was better than watching Shane fidget.

“I'm okay.”

“Why don't you tell me a story, then?”

“Not really in the mood.” Shane pursed his lips. “Do you mind if I go check my phone? It's just I'm expecting...”

“I never said you couldn't,” Kian reasoned, though he couldn't help his stomach sinking. “I just asked if you minded as a favour to me.” That made Shane pause. He looked utterly conflicted. “If you want to spend all night on your phone, fine. That's your business.” Kian looked back at the television. “I'm just getting sick of people calling at all hours of the day. It's pissing me off. We didn't do anything.”

“We're heroes, though.”

“Why? Because we were in the right place and called an ambulance?” Shane deflated slightly. He was really believing it, Kian realised. All the hype. “They're not interested in us, Shane. They just want to harass us until everyone gets bored, and I'm bored already.”

“Maybe we were meant to be there,” Shane said. “Did you ever think of that? Like...” He bit his lip. “I knew. I don't know how I knew, but I knew I was a supposed to be there. What if someone wants to talk to me about it?”

“ _I_ want to talk to you.”

“No, you don't want to talk to anyone.”

“Because there's nothing to _say_.” Kian knew he sounded frustrated. Shane's face was going flat, the way it did when he wasn't sure if he was annoyed or upset yet. “We told them everything we know. There's someone in a damn hospital bed who doesn't know who he is. This isn't about _you_.” He stood up, crossed into the study, and unplugged Shane's phone. Tossed it to him. “There you are. I'm going out.”

“Kian...” He looked sorry, but Kian saw it. The flash of greed and relief when he caught the phone. “I didn't mean...”

Kian shook his head and headed upstairs to get dressed.

  
  


*

  
  


The strange thing about finishing early was that it made everything seem later than it was. Between coming home and stropping out Kian had already put on his pyjamas, watched a few hours of television, had dinner, argued with Shane, and gotten dressed again. He was surprised by the amount of people on the street and then remembered it was six thirty on a Friday night, and of course there'd be families about with children.

He didn't know where he was going. Hated himself for bringing his phone, though it was mostly just in case Shane called with an emergency. What emergency, Kian wasn't sure, but in a pinch he was certain Shane could make something up.

There were two news vans parked in front of the hospital when he passed it. He shook his head and kept going. Vultures, apparently. It had been a week and nobody appeared to be any closer to finding anything out, were just repeating the same fucking information over and over again.

He wondered what the poor guy was doing up there. What he thought about the sudden flurry of interest, trapped in a hospital room with everyone wanting to ask him questions he didn't know the answer to. If he knew how to feed and dress himself, or if all the important stuff was there, just not who he was, a blank slate in a body that remembered how to walk and talk.

The message came through just as he was thinking about heading home.

 _I'm sorry_ , it said.

Kian turned the car around.

  
  


*

  
  


The house was dark, when Kian got home. He found Shane in bed, squashed over on what was slowly becoming his side. Kian sank down beside him, pulling himself over until he could sit cross-legged, looking down at his friend.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Shane mumbled back. He was out of it. Kian could tell already. Had taken something, probably to calm his nerves. He'd been crying. Kian wanted not to feel guilty. He hadn't done anything wrong. Still, with Shane it wasn't about blame, it was about whatever muddled, fucked up feelings were going on in that head of his, getting confused with rational thought and drowned under whatever cocktail of prescriptions he was on at the time.

“What did you take?”

“It's safe. I'm fine.” That had to be good enough. “I'll sleep for a while.”

“That's probably a good idea.” Kian pushed dark hair back from a forehead that wrinkled under his touch.

“Are you angry with me?”

“No.” He sank down to lay alongside Shane. “I'm not. I'm just frustrated.” He reached out an arm, let Shane roll into it. Wished for once it wasn't up to him to be the comforter. “Do you understand why?”

“Yeah,” Shane huffed. “Why do you always want things to be boring?”

“I don't. I just...” He looked into vacant hazel eyes that probably wouldn't remember this conversation in the morning anyway. “I've got a life, Shane. I can't just fuck about enjoying my fifteen minutes over something stupid. I have a job to go back to after it's all over.”

“A job you don't even like.”

“I do like it.”

“You always complain about it.”

“I'm happy to have one,” Kian reasoned. “I'm comfortable. This wasn't something I needed.” Shane had, he realised. A stable job was foreign to him, but Kian knew he avoided boredom at all costs. Boredom to Shane was sitting in one place stuck in his own head. He was like the sea, needing to move and rage before he could be calm again, sweeping everyone up in the tide until they either got to safety or drowned. Kian wasn't sure which one he'd been doing for the last twenty years, but he was still here, at least, bobbing in Shane's currents.

When he looked down he realised Shane was asleep.

Kian went to put his pyjamas on and slid into bed. He rested his head on Shane's chest and pulled an arm around himself, wanting to feel held for once, if only until he fell asleep.

  
  


*

  
  


He dreamed of the sea.

It was dark, the wind a howl around his ears, yanking wet hair and blowing salt into his eyes. The waves were angry, the little house a cold pinprick in the darkness. He cried out. Tried to swim. Legs kicking far above the sea-bed, the water dragging him backwards while the house floated further away, the candle-light in the upstairs window turning it into a lantern being carried into the night.

A wave slapped over him, slammed him down. He surfaced spluttering. Couldn't see the house. Couldn't see anything. The next one threw him under, his mouth open in a helpless scream.

He floated. The rage above him, the water a slow, beating heart that held him still, green and golden and shattered with starlight, the rush of the currents like a song from another room.

  
  


*

  
  


Shane wasn't in bed when Kian woke, though that was nothing new. Probably pottering around downstairs. Maybe outside. The window was open, blowing the cold in, so he shut it with a grimace, clumsy in his hastily kicked-on slippers, robe flapping about him until the latch was flicked shut.

He raked his hair back, out of his eyes. Windy, today. Cold too. The sky was clear, though, a blustery early-summer day.

Shane wasn't downstairs. There was no sign he ever had been. No incidental mess, no door left carelessly open. Kian opened the front door and peered out, knotting his robe tighter when the wind found him again. The sea was beautiful, the same greying blue as the sky, rippled with indecisive breakers that rolled under and crashed into themselves. He shielded his eyes against the sun.

He forgot Shane for a while. There wasn't much point fretting, really. Shane would come back when he wanted. Was probably hunting down a news reporter to tell more stories to. He made toast. A cup of tea. Enjoyed the silence for long minutes, the solitude of being in his own house on his own time, not worrying about intentions or comfort or bad memories. After he ate he went outside and sat on the beach with another cuppa, staring out at a yacht that bobbed in the distance, a triangular white cloud drifting over the waves.

He was walking back up the garden path when he was hit.

He yelped. Jumped back. Hadn't seen it coming, just a dark flurry and the impact, the one that was making his heart slam defensively in his chest as he looked at the ball of wet leaves on the path in front of him.

“Take that.”

“Shane...” He looked up. On the roof, peering over the edge of the gutters. The open window, he realised too late, though how could he have suspected? A smooth wall capped with a high slant of crumbling slate. You'd have to be stupid or crazy.

“Good morning.” Shane hurled another handful of leaves. Scooped from the gutter Kian had been meaning to clean out. They landed with a wet splat on the pavers.

“That's disgusting. Shane...” He began to brush green muck of his shirt. “Don't touch that. It's probably got mould or something.” Shane shrugged. “What are you doing up there?”

“You closed the window.”

“Why didn't you yell?”

“I wasn't ready to come down yet,” Shane reasoned. “How was your tea?”

“It was fine.” Kian sighed. “Stay there. I'll get a ladder.”

“I'm fine.” Shane pushed himself up, wobbling slightly. Kian felt his stomach knot around his heart. Heard the rattle of loose shingles. Could see it already; through the roof and into the attic, probably. Best case it'd just be the house that was hurt, worst case he'd break his bloody neck. “I'll climb down the pipe.”

“Please don't.” He put both hands up. Shane wobbled again. “Seriously, Shane. I'll get a ladder. Just...” He stared at his friend for a long moment, trying to somehow communicate how serious he was. That this wasn't just a laugh, the two of them climbing trees or shimmying up walls. “Stay there.”

Shane rolled his eyes. Kian ran. To the shed. Wrestled the ladder out and was halfway back to the house when he heard a ceramic smash.

Then another.

There was no cry, no shout, but he heard the silence. Felt it, even as he ran, his shoes slapping on pavement.

Heard the sudden, sickening thump.

He let the ladder go, heard it clatter, ignored it. Eyes already stinging with tears that caught the wind as he rounded the corner, choking on his own breath.

“Shane?”

He slid to his knees. Felt the stone shred his pyjama bottoms, then his skin in the same breath. Was too scared to touch. You weren't supposed to touch, not in case you made it worse, but Shane was on the ground, twisted all the wrong way, and...

“Kian.” It was dazed. Kian couldn't reply. “Don't worry about the ladder.”

Kian's laugh was choked with tears. Shane blinked at the sky. There was blood on his cheek. He was too still.

“I'm not dead,” Shane said. “Part marks for that?”

“At least,” Kian agreed. “Please keep being alive while I call an ambulance?” Shane shrugged. Actually shrugged. A good sign, Kian hoped, though he hissed with pain. His left wrist looked wrong.

Kian sprinted for the house.

  
  


 


	6. Chapter 6

_"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not myself - I'm somebody else - that's me yonder - no - that's somebody else got into my shoes - I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and every thing's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!"  
-Rip Van Winkle, Washington Irving_

 

It felt surreal, calling the ambulance again. Waiting for it to come. The horrible vigil, watching every breath, talking fast and pointless and telling Shane to stay awake, please stay awake, though Shane kept smiling vacantly and looking off into the distance, his eyes drooping shut.

They checked him carefully. Gave him gas and strapped him to the trolley and asked Kian about prior medical history. Asked if he'd taken anything. Kian couldn't, in all honesty, say that he knew. Just said it was possible. They asked what prescriptions he was on. Kian couldn't help with that either.

Two hours later, watching Shane sleep, he finally let himself cry.

It was brief. A fury of tears that left as quickly as it came, leaving him with a sore throat and tear-stained cheeks. Couldn't say that he was sad, or even angry. Just helpless and frightened, about more than the concussion and the cast on Shane's arm. The creeping knowledge that he'd not worried about Shane, for only half an hour, and this had been the result of his carelessness.

Ridiculous, probably. Shane was a grown-up. One who was away for months at a time. Who'd done something so stupid as to climb onto the roof because there hadn't been enough reasons not to.

It was exhausting. Kian was exhausted.

He left Shane asleep. Went for a walk. The coffee was dreadful, but it was hot. He sipped it. Wandered through the downstairs foyer, around the gift shop, looking at smiling teddy-bears holding cheerful hearts. Thought about getting Shane some balloons then figured it was more trouble than it was worth when Shane would insist they come home with them and Kian would have to clean up deflated rubber after watching them wilt for two weeks while Shane promised to throw them out.

He was staring at a row of champagne flutes that said Congratulations It's A Girl when he felt presence beside him.

“Hey.” The detective they'd met a few times before. Byrne. Shane had said some fairly suggestive things about men in uniform after he'd left the last time, and Kian understood. He was very cute, though this time he was in day clothes, a polo shirt and jeans, sunglasses propped up on his hair. “Fancy seeing you.”

“Detective.” He stuck a hand out for a companionable shake. “You here to see the mystery man?”

“No. Cousin's just had a baby so I'm dropping in to say hi.” He picked up one of the champagne flutes, turned it over, then put it back down with a grimace. “Meant to buy something better, but the little bugger didn't want to wait three more weeks for the due date, so needs must.” He turned to look at the shelf behind them. “You can call me Nicky, by the way. Your part in the whole thing's basically done, so don't worry about it.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Girl.” He looked up. “What are you in for?”

“Visiting.” He probably looked a mess. Had thrown on jeans and a shirt while the paramedics had been getting Shane sorted, though his hair was still messy from bed and the wind, and he suspected he needed a shower. “I mean, I came in the ambulance, so it's probably not visiting exactly, but...”

“What happened?”

“Shane was... cleaning the gutters.” It wasn't technically a lie, and it was better than explaining. “He fell off the roof.”

“Jesus.”

“Just a broken wrist and a concussion.” The look of alarm ebbed slightly from concerned blue eyes. “I'll head home soon, have a shower. Come back in later when he's awake.” The detective nodded and picked up a pink stuffed rabbit from the shelf, looked at it, then put it back. “You're probably sick of being here, right? With the investigation and everything?”

“It's been interesting,” Nicky agreed carefully. Kian got it. He probably couldn't go chatting about it in detail. “Are you two still getting the press annoying you?”

“It's slacked off a bit.” Nicky nodded. “Saw them outside. Think they'll get bored soon?”

“I hope so. There's nothing new to tell them.” He glanced at Kian. “Saw Shane in the paper a few times.”

“Yeah,” Kian mumbled awkwardly. Nicky was giving him a look he wasn't sure how to read. “How's he doing?”

“Shane?”

“No. The... you know.” He gestured upwards, in the general direction the lad probably was. “I mean, it must be scary, right? They haven't found family or anyone? Like, does he remember how to dress himself and stuff, or is he just kind of... y'know.” He paused. Nicky was smiling. Kian realised he'd been thinking about it more than he'd realised. “Sorry. You're probably not allowed to talk about it.”

“It's fine.” Nicky picked up the rabbit again and began to head towards the counter. Kian trailed beside him. “He's lost. I feel for the guy, you know? I think he's lonely more than anything.” He hesitated, looking sidelong at Kian. “Would you like to meet him, maybe? I'm sure he'd appreciate the company.”

“I don't know.” He bit his lip. “I wouldn't want to annoy him.”

“I'm headed that way. Come upstairs if you want.” Nicky paid and took the bag. “If you don't want to, it's fine. It's a weird situation. He might say no, anyway.” Kian shrugged awkwardly. “He's asked after you a few times.”

“Me?”

“Well, you did save him.”

“Haven't you read the papers? Shane did that.”

“I'm sure he helped.” A hand clapped down onto Kian's shoulder. “If you're not coming, I'll see you.” He began to move away. Kian swallowed.

“Wait,” he called out. Nicky looked back. “Okay. Yeah. There aren't any press up there, are there?”

“Not that I know of.” Nicky lifted a hand in invitation. “Hurry up. My cousin's got a baby I still haven't met yet.”

  
  


*

  
  


It was quiet upstairs. The sign said the maternity ward was to the right, but they turned left instead, down a corridor. Nicky was friendly out of uniform, was chatting and asking questions and talking about his cousin. By the time they made it to a door at the end of the hallway they were arguing about the football, Nicky laughing and Kian wondering if it was okay to thump a police officer for supporting the wrong team.

“This is him.” The blinds were closed. Nicky reached for the doorknob. “Wait here. I'll see if he minds.”

He disappeared, leaving Kian stood uncertainly in the hall, looking at a vending machine that had a crisp packet stuck halfway out of one of the pockets. It was absurdly infuriating. He was considering giving it a shake when the door opened again.

“He's just woken up.”

“Oh... I'll go then, if he's not...”

“He wants to say hi,” Nicky assured him. “I have to go. He'll let you in when he's dressed.” Kian nodded. “Are you okay? You look a bit pale.”

“Just... a really long morning.”

“I getcha.” Nicky clapped him on the shoulder. “Hope Shane's alright. I'll probably see you around. Take care of yourself, yeah?” Kian said he would. Then he was alone, watching Nicky jog back down the hall towards the maternity ward.

The crisp packet was still sat halfway out of the pocket, caught on the metal coil. Kian stared at it. He could hear shuffling in the room behind him, but it appeared he was alone for a minute at least, and he stepped closer to peer through the glass.

He gave it a quick shake, then glanced around to make sure nobody had heard. They hadn't. Private rooms, obviously, a bit more secluded from the rest of the hospital.

He gave it a gentle rock, then harder when he saw the packet shift slightly. It was quite low down. He wondered if he could reach up and grab it through the slot and then decided that was too much like stealing and not enough like letting gravity take its course. Still, somebody had paid for it, had probably been annoyed when it had gotten stuck, so if anything Kian was doing them a favour.

The door clicked behind him. He didn't have enough time to turn around, both hands still on either side of the machine.

“Tried that.” It was a soft voice, a little cheeky. Kian glanced over his shoulder. “It's been stuck since I got here.”

“Thought I'd bring you a gift?” Kian attempted. The man rolled his eyes. He looked better than last time, at least. Dark hair pushed back, a little stubble around the jaw that suggested a shave the day before. His eyes were laughing. Blue, like the ocean. Badly chapped lips pursed into a smirk, though there was a healing cut on the bottom one, a healing graze on his left cheek, red against the pink of fading sunburn

He was taller than Kian. Broader, though it was in a slightly hunchy way that made him look awkward and unsure. Kian smiled carefully back.

“Hi.”

“Hello.” He shuffled in his slippers. The gown was a little too big over hospital pyjamas. “Kian.”

“That's me. Yeah.”

“I remember you.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “I mean, that's not something I've gotten to say much, but... I'm sorry, it's all jumbled. Did we know each other before?”

“Before?”

“Before... you know. I remember there was water, but they said you found me at the beach, so I wasn't sure if that was when I remember you from, or if it was another time? Or maybe just from the papers and I put it together wrong. I'm not sure.”

“We didn't know each other before.” He saw the man's face fall slightly.

“Oh. That's fine. I figured. Thank you, anyway. And... Shane?”

“That's him.” Kian resisted the urge to sigh. The man was looking at him too hopefully. “I feel like I should ask you your name, but...”

“Mark.” He shrugged. “It's all I remember. They said not to let the press know in case vultures started making things up and pretending they know me, but I figure you're probably okay to tell considering you saved me and everything. Maybe if enough people start calling me that I'll remember or something.” He smiled weakly. “Er.”

“Mark it is,” Kian agreed. The lad was sweet. Very earnest. Kian liked him immediately.

“Do you want some help? Maybe we can do it together. I'll kick, you shake.”

“Teamwork,” Kian chuckled. “Wait, I think I have...” He rummaged in his pockets, came up with a handful of loose change and quickly counted it out before starting to push coins into the slot. He hit the buttons, and both of them watched as the spiral turned, dropping the packet into the tray. Kian pulled it out triumphantly.

“Success.”

“Want to split?” Kian began to open it.

“Okay.” Mark looked at the packet curiously. “I don't know if I like cheese and onion.”

“You're about to find out.” He held out the bag. Mark took a crisp, popped it in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. Then he swallowed and reached out for another.

“I like cheese and onion.” Kian laughed. “Come in?”

Kian went in, shutting the door behind him.

  
  


*

  
  


It was a small room. Better than Shane's, down in the shared outpatient ward. Obviously for extended stays. There was a window, but it looked out onto the parking lot instead of the sea, and the bed was a little more comfortable than the basic reclining plank Shane had been in. This one had proper blankets, not just paper-thin sheets.

“Do you want a cup of tea or anything?”

“Just had a coffee.” He sat down in a nearby chair, which wasn't too uncomfortable, and put the packet on the nightstand where they could both reach them. “You like tea, do you?”

“I like tea.” Mark sat back on the bed. “I also like steak sandwiches, Skittles, and cabbage soup.”

“Not together I hope?”

“Not sure. Haven't tried it.” The twinkle in his eyes said he was joking. Kian laughed. Saw a faint blush steal into pale cheeks. “I like the Simpsons as well. I watched Friends last night. It wasn't bad.”

“The old episodes were better,” Kian pointed out. Mark shrugged. “This is really weird. I'm sorry. I have no idea what to say.”

“That's okay. Most people don't. Or they ask a lot of questions I don't know the answer to. I think some of them think I'm faking it, basically. Which is stupid. I wouldn't do this on purpose. Or maybe I would. I might be that sort of person and not know, though I don't think I am.” He hesitated, and for a moment Kian saw the smile fade. Then it fixed back in place. “Anyway. I've been talking about that for over a week, and it hasn't helped, so...”

“It must be scary,” Kian murmured. The smile faded again. This time it stayed gone.

“Yeah,” Mark said, after a long moment's silence. He looked up. “Can I tell you something?” Kian nodded. “Like, I know we've just met, but then everyone's someone I've just met, so I guess technically I've known you longer than anyone, if you know what I mean.” He was rambling a little too fast. Bryan did it sometimes, when he didn't know what to say, so just said everything at once. With Bryan it was different, a need to fill up space, a little exhausting at times. This felt more like Mark was scared of it being quiet. “I erm... I'm sort of worried that someone out there does know me. Like, saw me in the paper or whatever, and doesn't want me back.”

“Oh.” Kian nodded, a sympathetic ache blooming in his chest. “Well, I suppose if that's true, there's nothing you can do about it.”

“I suppose not,” Mark sighed. “I'm sorry. That's depressing. There's this psychiatrist who keeps wanting to talk about everything, but it feels a bit like there's nothing to talk about? Like, they're asking me my feelings and about past traumas and all this other stuff, but like, I don't have anything _to_ talk about. I only just found out I like Skittles.”

“It's a good start.” Kian leaned his chin in one hand, watching Mark smile at him. “I don't know who I am either.” Mark tilted his head in surprise. “My mam abandoned me when I was three. I mean, I know my name and stuff, but otherwise...” He shrugged.

“What did you do?”

“Kicked around the foster system mostly. They tried to make me talk about my feelings too.”

“Did it help?”

“Not really. I think in the end I just had to decide for myself who I was.” Mark nodded seriously. “That's all you can do, I suppose. Your situation's obviously different than mine.”

“Do you like who you decided on?”

“I think so. A lot of it was out of my hands, but yeah. For the most part.” He'd never really thought about it before, but he supposed he was doing okay. Better than a lot of the other kids he'd grown up with had.

Mark was nodding slowly. Kian waited. It looked like he was turning things over in his head. He reached for a crisp, ate it absently, then glanced over towards the window.

“I remember how to do things,” Mark said finally. “Most things, anyway. And I remember what most things are. But I don't know how I feel about any of them.” He reached for another crisp, eyes darting to Kian for a moment as though checking that he minded. He didn't. “Like... there was another me, and I'm a photocopy of that one, but he did the living and I don't know yet. Or maybe I'm just crazy.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I think I'm crazy, actually.” He sucked in a breath. “Thanks for talking to me. I'm probably holding you up.”

“No.” Kian hesitated. He was exhausted. Really wanted to go home and have a hot shower, but Mark looked fragile and tired and he didn't know how to leave him. “Are you allowed to go outside?”

“Yeah. They took me for a walk yesterday, just around the hospital. I think they're going to kick me out soon. Probably would have already, except with the press still interested they don't want to look like they're throwing me onto the street.” Kian blinked in horror, not sure what to say. “I get it. There's probably sick people who need the room. I'm just taking up space.”

“Where will you go?”

“Dunno. They were talking about putting me in a care home or something. I heard someone say dementia, which was fun.” His voice cracked slightly. Kian heard him swallow, saw trembling lips purse while he got himself under control.

“You're hardly thirty. They're just going to put you in an old folks home?”

“I guess so. Or a psychiatric centre.”

“They're not so bad. Sh... my friend was in one for a bit. He said he did a lot of arts and crafts.”

“Maybe I'll find out if I like painting too, then.” He sounded detached. Kian bit his lip. “Maybe I'll be really good at it. Or sculpture or something.”

“I think it's more playdough and macaroni art. Less sharp edges.”

“Fair enough.” Mark looked up. He was trying to smile. It wasn't working. They both looked up at a knock on the door, and Kian scooted back to let a nurse come in and around the bed with a tray of food. Mark lifted the crisp packet out of her way, replied that he didn't need anything else when she asked, and they both watched her leave again.

“I'd better let you eat.” Kian stood. Mark was looking down at the tray. There was a small plastic cup of Skittles in the side pocket with a smiley face drawn on the outside. The rest of it looked not much better than airplane food. “I have to come back later to pick up a friend. I can drop in on you again if you like?”

“Oh. Yes please.” The smile was genuine this time.

Kian smiled back, unable to help it.

  
  


 


	7. Chapter 7

_It is man who forces himself on things, not things which force themselves on him.  
-The Hunter and the Tortoise, West African folktale_

  
  


The second journey to the hospital was a lot easier than the first. When Kian climbed back in the car, still groggy from four hours sleep and hair damp from the shower, it felt like that morning had been a particularly horrible dream. The highlights were there: the leaves, the fall, Nicky, and Mark; but the rest was blurred, like it had been sitting on an oil slick of panic and adrenaline, and had been washed away in the hot water while he'd stood there, eyes closed and trying make his muscles relax.

They asked who he was here to see. He meant to say Shane.

They took him to Mark's room, a nurse looking curiously over her shoulder as she led him through the upstairs hallways.

It was probably fright, he reasoned, but part of him didn't want to see Shane. Didn't know how to look at him without shouting or bursting into tears. He wasn't sure which one of them he was angry with, but he _was_ angry, a burning knot of fear that solidified into fury when he tried to untangle it.

Mark was sat on the bed when he stepped in, looked up with a surprised smile that lit the room.

“Hello.”

“Hi,” he managed. Mark stood up.

“You came back.”

“Promised, didn't I?” He liked the smile. It was genuine, a little shy, reaching curious eyes that peered at him from under long lashes. “Had a shower and all, so at least now I look like a human being.”

“You look nice.” A pink blush rose to his cheeks. Kian smiled helplessly back. “I mean... you looked nice before too.”

“I looked like I'd been dragged through a skip.” He wondered if he should sit down, but Mark was standing, so he supposed he was standing too.

“I wouldn't know. I think I live in pyjamas now.” Mark pulled a face, tugging the shirt away from his skin. “I mean, they brought me some clothes from goodwill and stuff? People donated or something. There just doesn't seem much point wearing them when I'm in bed all the time.” He glanced towards the window.

“It's a nice day.” Kian looked as well. Blue sky and a light breeze, a radiating warmth in the air. “Do you want to come out for a walk?” He needed to be checking on Shane, he knew, but maybe this was the best place for him. Just for a little while. It sounded awful, but at least here someone else was keeping an eye on him for a bit.

“I'd like that. Erm...” Mark looked around. “I'll have to get dressed. Do you mind...”

“Oh, I can...” He turned dutifully around, heard Mark laugh over his shoulder.

“I meant do you mind waiting, I'll get changed in the bathroom.” Kian turned back around, rolling his eyes. “I'll just...” He went to a shelf in the corner, where there was a plastic bin bag, and began to rummage through, pulled out a baggy blue t-shirt and a pair of shorts. “These okay?” Kian nodded. “Cool. Erm...” He headed towards the door in the corner. “Two minutes.”

They headed downstairs when Mark was ready. The clothes weren't amazing, were too big on him and obviously second hand, but he looked better out of pyjamas, less sickly. His hair needed cutting, but otherwise he looked like a tidy, rather normal young man. Kian caught him staring at his own reflection in the mirrored walls of the lift more than once, gaze careful, like he wasn't sure who he was looking at. Kian caught his eye, once, saw a smile when their gazes locked, and smiled back until Mark went back to studying himself.

“Where are we going?”

“Not that way.” Kian steered them away from the main entrance, where he knew the news vans were still waiting, and down a side corridor. A couple of nurses looked up when they passed.

“Everything alright?” one of them asked carefully.

“Just going for a walk,” Mark explained. “I'll be back soon.”

She looked like she was going to protest, then hesitated. Kian supposed there wasn't anything concrete to protest. Mark was an adult, there was nothing physically wrong with him, and he wanted to go outside. Still, he understood. All Mark's interactions so far had been from people who'd wanted things from him. Wanted to use him.

Kian wasn't sure what he wanted from Mark, exactly, except the boy looked too pale and there was nothing wrong with going outside.

They took the stairs to the underground parking garage. Mark looked nervous, but they headed out the other way, through the fire-escape, into a sunny area on the other side of the building. A short climb down a side-path later and they were walking past the bus stop behind the hospital, headed for the park.

“How'd you know about this?”

“I work a couple streets over,” Kian explained. “Some of the staff get the bus from here.”

“Oh.” They crested the hill, Mark lagging slightly behind, though his eyes lit up when he saw the park. Not a huge one, maybe a block in size, just a mostly kept lawn dotted by trees and a play area up the other end with a swingset and monkey bars. Kian sat down on an available bench, leaving room for Mark to settle beside him.

They didn't speak much, not right away anyway. Mark looked slightly overwhelmed, was blinking around at everything, his skin almost translucent in the sunlight with a thousand expressions ebbing over his features. A lava-lamp of worry, delight, curiosity, and something so far away and lost Kian didn't have a name for it. He stood, walked around restlessly for a few minutes, then kicked off his shoes. Sat back down again. Kian put a hand on his shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Think so.” He pursed his lips. “No,” he admitted. “I'm not. I'm...” He looked around. “There's so _much_ of it.”

Kian shrugged, not sure what to say. Supposed there was nothing to say, not when he couldn't make it better.

He was interrupted from his thoughts when Mark let out a sudden cry of panic and leapt off the bench.

“What is it?” Kian stood up a beat behind him, looking around, sure there had been a spider or something. Instead Mark was staring to the right of the bench, backing away, and Kian laughed when he realised. “It's just a magpie,” he chuckled. It was, looking at them sidelong and pecking at the grass near where they'd been sitting. A moment later it flew away, something wriggling in it's beak. Mark flinched at the flap of the wings.

“Don't like it.”

“It's just a bird. It's a kind of animal, but there's lots of kinds, like chickens and...”

“I _know_ what a bird is,” Mark retorted. “I just don't like them.”

“Why not?”

“Don't know.” He still looked defensive. “Think it's the wings, maybe.” He hesitated, then moved back toward the bench, casting his gaze quickly around as if to make sure there wasn't another one about to sneak up. He sat down gingerly. Kian sat beside him. “Just when I think I can't get crazier...”

“You're not crazy,” Kian said quickly. Mark gave him a disbelieving shrug. “Everyone's scared of something. If anything, it makes you more normal. Maybe it's a clue, even, about who you were before.”

“Like we check the papers for a bird-attack victim and hope it's me?”

“No,” Kian admitted. “Still, there's a reason for it, probably. Like, I'm scared of water.”

“Really?” Kian nodded. “Why?”

“Can't swim,” Kian admitted. “It's not even that I'm scared, I just won't go in. Something about it I just don't like, or maybe it feels like it doesn't like me. You know?” Mark nodded. “Stupid, probably.”

“I thought you said it was normal to be scared of things,” Mark teased. Kian grimaced.

“Yeah, well.” He looked up. “I'm scared to go see my friend in hospital.”

“We're friends now?”

“No. I mean, yes, if you like, but I mean my other friend. He's why I was there this morning, really. I think I'm frightened to see him hurt like that, because I couldn't help.” It rushed out quickly, and he looked away to hide his blush. “Because I always try to, but maybe it isn't enough, and next time I won't be able to help either, and it'll be worse, and I...” His voice thickened, and he swallowed quickly to clear it. “I'm scared I'll lose him, maybe.”

“Was he hurt that bad?” Mark was looking worried now. “What happened?”

“Just a broken wrist and concussion. He's fine. He fell off the roof.”

“Why was he on the roof?”

“I don't know, honestly. I never know.” He exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to sink. Mark was watching him carefully. “Sorry. You don't want to hear about this.”

“If he's not that hurt, why are you frightened of losing him?”

“It's... complicated.” Kian chewed his lip carefully, trying to think. “Maybe that's what I'm actually afraid of. Water, and losing Shane.”

“So you're wasting time with me to avoid being with him?”

“I'm not wasting time,” Kian said firmly. Mark was looking a little hurt. “I'm not. I wanted to see you.” He wasn't sure why. Mark was nice, but he knew a lot of nice people. Mark was also cute, but Kian knew a lot of those as well. Something indefinable in the way Mark smiled at him.

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Wanting to see me.” Mark shrugged. “I'm not sure why you would, but it's nice, anyway.” He hesitated. “If... you wanted to come see me when they move me, I could send you the address? Or you could give me your number, maybe?”

“You hitting on me?” Kian joked. Mark rolled his eyes.

“Forget it.”

“I didn't mean it like that. Sorry.” He put a hand carefully on Mark's forearm, gave it a gentle squeeze. Mark looked shyly back. “Would...” This was a stupid idea. Of course it was a stupid idea. “If you want somewhere to stay, why don't you come stay with me for a bit?” Mark's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “If you want. Until you get on your feet, sort of thing. I can help you find a job, and it's got to be better than...” He let go, still able to feel the sunkissed warmth of hairy skin on his palm.

“I'd have to think about it.” Mark's voice was slow, careful. He peeked up from under lowered lashes, tongue darting out nervously. “I wouldn't want to be in the way.”

“I've already got someone in the way,” Kian snorted. “It's fine. Shane's on the fold-out downstairs, but you can take it and he can sleep in with me.” Mark bit his lip. “It's just an idea. No pressure.”

“I appreciate it,” Mark murmured. “Can we head back? I'm tired.”

“Sure.” Kian stood. Mark did as well. He did look tired, like even being out here had taken it out of him. They began to walk slowly back towards the hospital, moving in silence. Mark looked like he was thinking. Kian was doing the same, wondering why he'd been so impetuous as to ask a stranger into his home. Something, maybe, about Mark looking so lost, no idea who he was and with nowhere to go. It cut close to home, obviously, but it wasn't just that. He'd never wanted to foster other kids, never felt that need to give back apart from occasional donations to charities when he thought of it, but this felt different. Like something was drawing him to Mark, even if it was even more responsibility to pile on his already overflowing plate.

He left Mark in his room, was surprised when he was pulled into a hug on the way out the door. Hugged Mark back, able to feel a hot blush in the cheek that pressed to his.

When he pulled back Mark's face was ablaze. Kian pretended not to notice and promised to visit the next evening after work, then said goodbye and headed for Shane's ward.

  
  


*

  
  


“Kian,” Shane murmured. Kian opened his eyes, not sure when he'd begun to doze. It was late. There was a dark silhouette cut into the column of light made by the half-open bedroom door.

“What's wrong?” he murmured. Shane shrugged. It was awkward, with the sling. His elbow was sticking out. Kian flicked on the lamp, saw sleepy eyes dulled by the painkillers Kian had been dismayed to find Shane had been given a prescription for at the hospital.

“Can I have a cuddle?”

“Course you can.” He pushed back the blanket, felt his heart melt when Shane crossed the room shyly, and climbed in. Kian lay back down, waiting until Shane had found a position that worked with half his left arm in plaster, and then sidled over, arm reaching across to drape over Shane's waist. A dark head turned into neck, settling there. Kian kissed his forehead.

“Sorry.”

“S'alright.” It wasn't. But Shane was safe, and alive, and for now that had to be enough. “I wish you'd stop frightening me. Please try to be sensible? Just for a little while?” He felt Shane nod into his shoulder.

“I'll just ask myself 'what would Kian do?'”

“Will you now?” He laughed gently. “What would he do?”

“Probably something boring.” Kian thought about getting annoyed, but he knew Shane didn't mean it like that. Not really. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No. Course not.” He kissed Shane's forehead again. “You always belong here.”

“I don't though, not really,” Shane murmured. Kian looked down in surprise. “It was given to you, because somebody loved you. It's yours. I just take up space.”

“The only person who's ever loved me in this house is you,” Kian assured him. He felt Shane smile. “You'll always belong.”

“People said that before. Then they got sick of me. Or tried to tell me what to do.”

“I won't do that,” Kian replied. “I can't tell you what to do. I can ask, though, and hope you'll want to take care of yourself, because I worry about you. I can ask if you'll please try to not be so out of it all of the time, even if that means not numbing the pain as much as you want. It's not good for you. It makes you sick and it makes you do silly things. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Shane breathed. “It hurts all the time, though. And anyway, I'm injured.” He lifted his arm with a smirk, and Kian knew as much as he wanted to believe it he probably hadn't gotten through to Shane, not properly. That maybe he never would. “I'll try,” he promised. Kian nodded.

“Thanks.” He brushed dark hair back from a forehead smooth above dozing eyes. “Would you like to tell me a story before you go to sleep?”

“Too tired.” His eyes were already shut. “In the morning.”

“In the morning,” Kian agreed. “Love you.”

Shane huffed a sleepy breath into his collar while Kian held him in the dark room.

  
  


*

  
  


Kian had been eleven when Shane had told him the story about the tortoise.

He didn't know where Shane got the stories from. Suspected a lot of them were made up, had to be, because he'd never seen Shane reading. There were books in the house, of course, a couple with fairy-tales and nursery rhymes, but they were the pretty sort, with princesses and magic kisses and happily ever afters.

They'd been sat in the kitchen of the house, eating peanut butter sandwiches. They were the only two there now, not the six there'd been when they'd arrived. The others had gone to real homes, to new parents who wanted them forever. The people who had taken on he and Shane were fine, but they weren't parents, not really. They were just nice people who wanted to help.

Kian had met a lot of nice people who wanted to help.

Shane had cut his corners off, was turning them out around the octagonal centre of his sandwich.

“It's a tortoise,” he announced, as he put a little piece of celery at one end.

Kian snorted. Of course. Corners for flippers. Shane was dotting two little blobs of jam onto the celery for the eyes.

“It's a turtle,” Kian pointed out. “Tortoises have legs. That has flippers.”

“Oh.” Shane looked down at it again. “There was a singing tortoise once, did you know?” Kian shook his head, already leaning forward slightly. One of Shane's stories. He was growing to love them, a little moment of startling interest between homework and the evening news.

“One day, a hunter wandered the wrong way, and he heard a beautiful song, so he stopped to listen. He crept closer. And closer. And even closer than that...”

“It was a tortoise?”

“You're jumping ahead. Don't jump ahead,” Shane scolded, glaring. “Let me tell it.”

“Sorry.” Kian folded his hands on the table. Shane studied him, for a long moment, and then he nodded in satisfaction and continued:

“The hunter pushed aside the grass, and he looked through, all quiet and secret, and there in the middle of the clearing was a tortoise, singing the most beautiful song and playing a tiny harp.” He looked sternly at Kian, as if daring him to deny it. Kian shook his head. “The hunter came back the next day, and the next, and the tortoise was always there, singing its song and playing its harp, and he fell in love with the music.

“One day, he couldn't hold back any longer, and he climbed into the clearing. The tortoise tried to run, but tortoises aren't very fast, so the hunter caught up and begged the tortoise to let him hear her song. So she began to play for him. Every day, for weeks and weeks, and as the days went by it became harder and harder for him to leave, because it felt like the music was inside him, and it hurt to let it go.

“So he asked her to come back with him to his hut. He'd treat her well, he said. Give her food and water and comfort and she'd never want anything, not for as long as she lived. He'd treat her like a queen. Eventually the tortoise agreed, but she said it was only to sing for him, that she was to stay secret.

“He agreed. And for a while he was happy. The tortoise would sing to him and he would take care of her in return. But soon he couldn't help himself. A singing tortoise was amazing, and everyone would have to love the man who had it. So he told one person, who laughed and called him a liar. Then another, who did the same. But soon everyone was talking about the hunter who said he had a singing tortoise, and when the chief heard this he called the man in and demanded to know the truth. So the hunter told him that he had a singing tortoise who played the harp, and everybody laughed at him.

“The hunter got angry. He was insulted, that people would call him a liar for this beautiful thing that he'd found, and so he shouted that it was true, that if he was lying may he be struck down dead.

“The chief took him at his word. He was sent to collect the tortoise, which he did, and he brought her back to the chief's hut and asked her to sing. But she wouldn't. He begged, and shouted, and cried, and reminded her that he gave her food and water and comfort, but she still wouldn't sing. Wouldn't even open her mouth to speak. The harp lay on the ground, useless, and again people began to laugh, at this crazy, lying hunter who was trying to give a harp to a stupid tortoise.

“Hours went by, until the chief demanded the hunter be beheaded, as he had sworn to die if he was lying, and a promise is a promise. So they cut off his head, and as he lay on the floor, head rolling around and blood everywhere, the tortoise very quietly asked to be taken back to her clearing.”

“Bet they were embarrassed,” Kian pointed out.

Shane shrugged. “They were angry. Our brother was telling the truth, they said, and you let him die. The tortoise shook her head. 'He did not tell the truth,' she said. 'I was happy in my home, and he promised me comfort and safety, and forgot I was his friend and not his property. I was happy to sing to him, because it made him happy to hear it, but it wasn't enough.'”

Shane reached for a flipper and popped it in his mouth. Kian stared, his own sandwich forgotten.

“What happened next?”

“Don't know. They cleaned up the body, probably let the tortoise go. Or they might have eaten it. That bit's not in the story.” He swallowed, smiling. “S'pose it's a bit like us, really. People say they want us, then get pissed off when it turns out they can't tell us what to do.” He stretched slightly, looking smug.

Kian shrugged, beginning to pick at his sandwich again. He supposed he knew what Shane meant. He tried his best, but he always seemed to get into fights, couldn't help himself when his anger got hot, usually because someone was picking on Shane.

They finished their sandwiches in silence, until it was time to head upstairs for homework.

  
  


 


	8. Chapter 8

_"I will willingly go away with you, but I do not know how to get down..." They agreed that until that time he should come to her every evening.  
\- Rapunzel, Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm_

  
  


They slept together all that night. When Kian left for work the next morning Shane was still in the bed, snoring gently. Kian nudged him into a position that was better for his arm, kissed his cheek when he stirred a little, and tucked him back in.

It was cold outside. He pulled his coat up to protect him from the hard wind. The sea was in turmoil. Beating itself against the rocks sheltering two seals, huddled in out of the spray. By the time he slid into his car they were gone, probably deeper under the water where it was calm, maybe headed for the caves towards the point. He saw them there sometimes, maybe fifty or more, lolling in the sunshine, all crowded in at the water's edge.

Work was exhausting. Bryan welcomed him back cheerfully, said all sorts of nutters had been calling. A couple did that day as well, but Kian could already tell the interest was dying off. There had been nothing on the news the evening before, and when he reached the hospital after work there was only a lone van, idling near the hospital, a man and woman stood outside it chatting disinterestedly into their coffees.

He went down to the parking garage, took the lift up, and a few minutes later was in the upstairs hallway, his journey not stopped or questioned by anyone. He wondered if the hospital had lost interest in Mark too.

He knocked on the door.

Mark answered, his smile like sunshine.

  
  


*

  
  


“You're home late.”

“Sorry.” Kian wasn't sure what he was apologising for. Wasn't sure if Shane's tone had been accusatory, at any rate. His friend was sat on the sofa when Kian finished hanging up his coat and stepped into the living room. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet. Was waiting for you.” He looked up. Clearer-eyed and a little unsettled looking. He was trying, Kian realised suddenly, had probably held off for hours waiting for Kian to come home, the pain getting worse, the impulse getting harder to ignore. “I had lunch.”

“Did you take your pills?”

“Just one. It doesn't feel so bad today.” Kian saw him wince as he shifted. “How was your day?”

“Not bad.” Kian sat down beside him. “I'm going to order in. Can't be bothered cooking.” Shane hitched an elbow.

“I'll chip in.”

“On me.” Shane wouldn't eat much anyway, so it probably didn't make much difference, and Kian knew he was burning through the money he'd saved from all the wankery with the press. “Maybe it's time to look for a job, if you're staying? I don't mind paying for bills and that, I'd do it anyway, but...”

“Maybe.” Shane glanced down at his arm. Kian already knew what the excuse would be. “I could come sell hurling sticks with you.”

“We're not hiring,” Kian said quickly. “Why don't you ask in at the career centre when you're feeling better? Someone's always looking for backpackers to hand out flyers and all that sort of thing. It's casual, so if you go again it won't matter so much.” Shane nodded thoughtfully. “I can help with your resume if you like?”

“Okay. Thanks.” He tilted his head. “So what are we eating?”

They ordered Chinese. Shane waited until he was almost halfway through his Kung Pao chicken before slipping upstairs. He came down looking slightly less edgy, and settled next to Kian with his legs crossed on the sofa, eyes fixed on the television and the carton held in one hand, chopsticks navigating clumsily back and forth to his mouth.

“Working tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” Kian nodded. “I erm... I might have to stay late a few nights this week. Just a heads up.”

“How late?”

“Nine-ish?”

“Yuck.” Shane pulled a face. “Why?”

“Manager stuff. There are accounts and things I have to do.” They'd take him all of ten minutes. He wanted to go see Mark, didn't want to tell Shane in case he was on the phone to the papers the moment Kian walked out the door. Maybe he was worried Shane would get jealous, a little, wasn't quite ready to tell him about asking Mark to stay. Whatever the reason, there was nothing to be gained by mentioning it.

Shane seemed to accept that well enough. After dinner Kian went upstairs for a hot shower, and then they stayed up late together, watching TV and laughing over stupid things. Shane seemed clearer tonight, more like the old Shane, who was funny and interesting and told outlandish stories that weren't true but were at least entertaining to listen to. By the time he went to bed he could feel it, that old soft warmth, the one that wanted to treat Shane as his equal, not this lost boy he needed to protect.

He dreamed of the ocean. Of Mark, sat on a rock, the spray a cascade around him while he reached a hand down and Kian tried to claw for the surface.

  
  


*

  
  


Kian began to look forward to being with Mark, as the days went on. Every evening after work he'd close up the shop, lock the front door, and walk the few blocks to the hospital. Sometimes he'd walk with Bryan on the way to the bus stop, if the other man was on the later shift as well, but usually it was alone, hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets as the air got colder, the antiseptic smell when the automatic doors opened becoming far too familiar a scent.

There were bags whenever Kian arrived, charity parcels, and letters from both people who were nice and people who seemed to be slightly unhinged, often ranting that Mark was their grandfather who'd gone missing in the war, or somesuch impossible bollocks. Kian read them so Mark didn't have to, showing him the ones that had something funny to say, and crumpling up the upsetting ones to throw in the waste-basket near the door.

“I'm going in a few days,” Mark announced one evening, not long after Kian had arrived. He'd been visiting just over two weeks, had managed to hide it from Shane. He was beginning to feel guilty about that. He could see Shane was doing his best, was clearer than usual and had even contributed around the house, the place vacuumed and tidied more often than not when Kian finally arrived home. He didn't trust it, not entirely, but Shane was trying and that was enough for now.

“Where are you going?”

“Halfway house.” Mark reached for a card from the deck. They were playing poker badly. Kian had explained the rules from what little he remembered from playing for matches over a decade before, and they'd both lost interest in trying to win and were just passing the time. “Call.”

“Pair of threes.”

“Three nines.” Mark began to scoop up the cards.

“Are you okay with that?”

“Suppose so.” He hesitated slightly, looking up from under lowered lashes. “It's probably easier. I wouldn't want to be a burden on anyone else, and they can help me get work there. Reskill. Or skill, I suppose. Maybe it'll turn out I was really good at working at Starbucks, in my past life.”

“Could be a rocket scientist?”

“Get me something radioactive to poke and we'll find out.” Mark began to deal the cards. “I don't know what I want to do, really. It feels so weird, like I've just been born and I have no idea what's going on, but I'd better hurry up with being a productive member of society.”

“Do you know your times tables at least?”

“I know how to spell boobs on a calculator, does that count?”

“Good enough,” Kian laughed. Mark smiled. “The offer's still open, if you want to come stay with me.” Mark shrugged, and fixed his gaze intently on his cards. “If you don't want to, I won't be offended. Really.”

“I do,” Mark murmured. He glanced up shyly. “I don't want to be in the way.”

“You won't be.” He covered Mark's hand with his own, returned the hopeful smile that twitched at full lips. He really was beautiful. Dark hair, pale skin, red mouth. Like a porcelain doll. Kian realised he was staring and shook himself. No, that was an inconvenient thought. Still, he couldn't deny that as they'd gotten closer he'd felt it. That undeniable pull, the thrill when Mark's eyes would lock with his, when he'd laugh. The feel of warm skin under his when he squeezed Mark's hand.

“I...” His tongue darted out for a moment, and Kian waited while he swallowed and looked down at his hands, the one with the cards and the one held in Kian's. “Thank you. For offering, even. I...” He leaned in, and Kian was surprised when a kiss pressed shyly to his cheek. Mark pulled back, blushing. His hand was still in Kian's. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Mark repeated. “But if I'm in the way, even a bit...”

“I'll kick you out on the street, I promise.”

“Cheers.” Mark smiled. Looked down at his cards. His hand slid from Kian's. “Erm... ooh!” He grinned at his cards, then sobered, forcing himself into a poker face. “It's just an okay hand. Not even good at all.”

“I'm sure.” Kian peered at his own. “Nothing.”

“Three kings.” Mark threw down his cards. “It's getting late. Can you stay?”

“One more.” Kian glanced at the clock. “I've got tomorrow off. How about I pick you up around midday. Gives me time to tidy the place and make room for your things.”

“What things?” Mark rolled his eyes. “Yes, please.” His smile was beautiful. “Thank you, Kian.”

“You're welcome.” He found himself smiling helplessly back as he began to shuffle the deck again.

He wondered what the hell he was going to tell Shane.

  
  


*

  
  


“I'm sorry?”

“He's... going to stay with us.” Shane was tilting his head, like he was sure he'd misheard and was waiting for the wax to trickle out of his ears. “I ran into him while I was waiting for you in the hospital.”

“That was three weeks ago.”

“Yeah, well...” The gaze fixed on him narrowed. “I was a bit all over the place with you hurting yourself, and then I sort of forgot. Then the other day after work I just... I got this feeling like I should go visit, you know? They're going to put him in a halfway house otherwise.”

“Oh.” Shane didn't believe him. Kian didn't know that he minded, so long as they didn't have to talk about it. “Where's he going to sleep?”

“Thought he could take the fold-out. You can sleep in with me.” Shane was doing that anyway. Climbing in late and snuggling up to Kian, often sneaking back out to the sofa before dawn, as though he wanted to pretend he hadn't.

“Thanks for the charity.”

“If you don't want to...”

“Didn't say that.” Shane pursed his lips. “Suppose... I mean, that's sort of news, isn't it? We saved him, and now he's our room-mate.”

“Please don't,” Kian sighed. Shane's face fell. “I've had enough of the press, Shay. I doubt they even care any more.”

“People could be interested in a story like that. Fairytale ending. And if they pay us, we can split it. I mean, he hasn't got any money, has he? It'd be a good thing.”

“No,” Kian said firmly. Shane stared blankly back. “He's not a toy. If he suggests it, we can talk about it, but otherwise I don't want you bringing it up.” Shane's mouth opened to protest. “Remember the story about the singing tortoise?”

“What about it?”

“How does it go?”

“Who cares? I'm not...” Shane must have realised Kian was glaring, because he sighed. “Fine. I get it.” Kian didn't know if he did, but his friend looked away, crossing his arms. “You know, the tortoise was kind of shitty as well. It let someone suffer just to prove a stupid point.” He stood up. “Guess I'd better move my things, if he's going to be taking up the sofa.”

His departure was marked by the sullen thump of suitcase wheels up the stairs.

  
  


*

  
  


Kian felt a little like a spy, smuggling Mark out of the hospital. He took over an empty suitcase around lunchtime, and together they filled it with what few possessions Mark had. They left a lot behind. Donated clothes that didn't fit, gifts that weren't really needed. The nurses promised to make sure the teddies and useable items made it to good homes, and Mark thanked them and said goodbye before being ushered out a back entrance to Kian's car.

There was a social worker. Nice enough lass who was in charge of making sure Mark didn't get taken advantage of, but even she didn't seem enormously concerned. Kian supposed she had other things to worry about, people who weren't of sound mind or more vulnerable than a cheerful enough young man who had somewhere concrete to go.

It was sweet, driving with Mark in the passenger seat, watching him stare out the windows as they wound through town and out toward the spit, face pressed to the glass and asking questions like he was a tourist in a foreign country.

“This is where you live?” he asked, as they pulled up. Kian nodded.

“This is it.” He pulled the handbrake, tugged the key from the ignition. Mark was still staring out. It was a beautiful day. The sky glass-blue, sea a heaving swell of green. He could see the silhouette of Shane in the upstairs window, staring out, and he lifted his hand in a wave, saw it returned before the curtains were drawn and the figure disappeared.

“It's pretty.”

“Thanks.” He climbed out, retrieved the suitcase, and began to lug it up the path and across the small front lawn while Mark stared around with wide eyes that seemed to take everything in at once. When he pushed the door open Shane was in the kitchen, his shuffling a harmony to the whistle of the kettle, though he stuck his head out.

“Hiya.” He looked at Mark. Mark stared back. Kian stayed silent, aware that they were sizing each other up and not wanting to break the careful equilibrium that was trying to settle. “You take milk?”

“Oh... yes please.” Mark reached out a hand. Shane shook it. “Thanks. For having me. I told Kian I didn't want to be in the way, but...”

“Course you're not,” Shane said quickly. “Sugar?”

“Two?”

“Grand.” Shane disappeared back into the kitchen. Mark stared after him, teeth worrying his bottom lip.

They got Mark settled quickly. Shane showed him how the couch pulled out, Kian got his things stored away in the study, and just like that they had a new house-mate, a third toothbrush in the cup beside the bathroom sink, an extra body taking up space in the living room while Shane flicked absently through channels on the television.

They seemed to get along okay. By the time Kian was serving dinner the stilted conversation had developed into soft laughter, the two of them sat on the sofa, Shane telling stories about Kian from their youth and Mark asking questions, giggling whenever Kian would come into the room and ask what Shane was making up about him.

They ate at the garden table, the sea murmuring over the ridge.

“We're glad you're here,” Shane said. Kian tried not to hug him.

“Thanks.” Mark glanced at Kian, who smiled back. “And for... before. Kian said you were the one that found me.”

“I'm psychic,” Shane announced.

“Are you?”

“He's just very lucky,” Kian interrupted. Mark was looking confused. Shane pouted. “We were all lucky. You got found, and we were in the right place at the right time.”

“Kian doesn't believe me. I know things.”

“What things?”

“Like... sometimes I get a feeling, right? That something's going to happen. Like I knew we had to go for a walk, and we found you. Or once I had this feeling like I had to go back home, and when I did I'd left the oven on.”

“Or you just remembered you'd left the oven on, possibly,” Kian pointed out. It was a surprise it didn't happen more often, with Shane's mind three steps behind itself half the time. “It happens to everyone, Shay.”

“Once I was at work, and I got this feeling like I had to leave, and the next day it turned out there'd been a gas leak and four people were in the hospital.”

“Where was that at then?” Kian asked.

“Just... work.” Mark was watching in rapt attention. “Once I knew a car was going to run a red light, and I jumped in front of it before it could hit an old lady. Broke both my legs but I saved her life.”

“Really?” That one was definitely made up.

“Well, we should all be so lucky. Anybody want dessert?” Kian stood up. “Shane, could you clear the plates, please? I'll get the ice-cream.” Shane began to dutifully collect the dishes, joined Kian in the kitchen just as Kian dug the tub out of the freezer. The plates went into the sink with a clatter. Kian thought about saying something, then decided not to. “Chocolate or strawberry?”

“Chocolate.” Shane began to dig out bowls. “Kian?”

“Yeah?”

“He can stay.”

“Good.” He leaned in, kissed Shane quickly on the cheek. “Thanks for being sweet to him.” Pink flush spilled into pale cheeks. “He's part of our gang now, right? Just us lost boys?”

“Yeah.” Shane grinned shyly. “Extra numbers against the pirates. Captain Hook won't know what hit him.”

“Definitely not,” Kian chuckled. “Just don't snore tonight, and they'll never hear us coming.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

_They were good bears - a little rough or so, as the manner of bears is - but for all that very good-natured and hospitable.  
-The Story of the Three Bears, Robert Southey_

  
  


“So he's just staying in your house?”

“Yeah.” Kian shrugged. He'd said goodbye that morning, left Mark in Shane's care for the day. Been a little reticent about doing it, but he was running out of holiday pay, Margaret's hours had dropped pending her maternity leave, and he supposed he had to let go eventually.

He'd pulled Mark aside, before he'd gone. Felt guilty doing it, but had to say something or fret all day. That if Shane offered him anything, any sort of medication, that Mark wasn't to take it. That he was to let Kian know. It had felt like giving a talk to a twelve year old about peer-pressure, but Mark had nodded solemnly and agreed, his eyes darting towards the other room where Shane had been making breakfast out of earshot.

“What's he like?”

“Lovely.” Kian found himself smiling. He really was. Sweet and helpful and always watching everything with those big eyes. “He's a really nice guy. Shane gets on with him too.”

“That's your friend? He's still staying with you?”

“For now, yeah.”

“You're turning into a B&B.”

“Should start charging rent,” Kian mused. Bryan snorted. “You want a place to stay? I'm running out of beds, but I could put an air-mattress in the shed?”

“Tempting, but I think I'll stick to my actual house if it's all the same to you.”

“Mm.” Kian picked up the box of swimming goggles he'd meant to put out when he'd gotten distracted. “It's fine. There's a social worker coming every few weeks, but it's all a bit indefinite. Like, there's supposed to be government allowances, but because he doesn't exist there's no name to really attach it to, and he can't get a job because he can't get a bank account or ID or anything.” The plan was to get him fresh identification, eventually, but until the investigation finished there wasn't any way to rule out his previous identity, especially if his memory might come back. He couldn't very well be two people. “We're just calling him Mark.”

“That's his name?”

“Apparently.”

“Hm.” Bryan trailed him as he began to head back to the shop floor. “Still getting calls from the nutters, by the way. Had one this morning, going on about him being an alien. Or a government experiment. Not sure which. Not even sure he knew himself, to be honest.”

“Brilliant,” Kian sighed. “I'm sorry. I had the news calling me this morning as well. Apparently they've twigged he's not at the hospital, seemed to think I might know where he is.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That I've no idea, and to please go away.”

“Polite.”

“When I said it, 'please' started with F.”

“Ah.” Bryan smirked. “Fair play.” Kian put the box down, was about to start unpacking it, when the bell above the door rang. They both looked over. “I'll get it,” Bryan announced, and wandered off, leaving Kian staring into a box of goggles, not sure why he suddenly felt so tired.

The day dragged. It was raining when he left, and he gave Bryan a lift to the bus-stop on the way, made it home just after eight, a swell of worry having filled him as he'd wound towards the spit. Why, he wasn't sure. They were both adults, and he left Shane at home all the time. He pushed open the door, tense at the silence that greeted him, the dark front hall, then relaxed when he heard the sound of laughter upstairs, a low chuckle matching a high, smirking snort.

They were laid on their stomachs on Kian's bed watching TV, a bowl of crisps between them. Shane looked up, still laughing, when Kian pushed open the door.

“Welcome back.”

“Thanks.” He glanced at the crisps. “You're not getting crumbs in my sheets, are you?”

“I'm sorry. I was hungry. Shane said...” Mark looked nervous, bless him. “We'll clean up.”

“It's fine,” Kian assured him. A shy smile began to creep into pink cheeks. Kian smiled carefully back. “I was just taking the piss.” He sat down on the edge of the mattress between Mark and the window, began to pull off his shoes and socks. When he looked around Shane had lost interest again but Mark was watching him, though his eyes darted away when Kian caught him. “How was everyone's day?”

“Good.” Shane rolled over onto his back. “Local news called.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Told them to fuck off.” He looked triumphant when he said it. Kian reached across to touch his shoulder fondly, then bent over to kiss his cheek.

“Thanks.” He saw Mark's eyes dart away again. “Well, I was going to suggest ordering in, but it looks like you two have already ruined your dinner.” Kian shrugged off his jacket, then stripped off his t-shirt, threw it in the hamper. A clean one was on a minute later, his jeans dropped until he flopped onto the bed in his boxers, feeling finally comfortable for the first time that day.

“That was sexy.”

“It was meant to be,” Kian shot back. Shane snorted and turned back to the TV. He realised Mark was still looking at him. “You okay?”

“I'm okay.” A smile darted across full lips. Kian smiled back, nudged him with a shoulder. “I'm ehm... I'm glad you're home.”

Kian didn't know what to say to that, so he didn't, just nodded and nudged him again, saw a blush blossom in stubbly cheeks.

  
  


*

  
  


Being gay had always been an odd thing in the system. Kian had always suspected it of himself, when he'd been younger. He'd never really been frightened of it, nor ashamed. Had just known that he liked boys better than girls. Shane had always been upfront about it, wore it like armour, as though he was pre-empting anything people might say about him. He'd not been surprised when Kian had told him. If anything, Kian had almost felt like Shane was a little put out, as though Kian had stolen his thunder.

There were lots of gay kids, though. Some that had been disowned by their parents, or run away from home rather than face the consequences of something they couldn't help. Still, it was a house full of defensive, generally angry boys, so if something was an easy target, it was a shot you could expect to be taken.

Kian had mostly been quiet about it. He'd never seen it as his identity, not really. Had his first time at fifteen with a sweet lad who'd lived in the house for a bit. Not a boyfriend as such, just a lad a year older than him who had a bit more experience. They'd gotten on okay. Kept it between the two of them, though everyone had known including Shane, who had asked him quite frankly if they were fucking.

Kian had said yes, they'd slept together. Shane had snorted, rolled his eyes, and stalked out of the room, as though he was completely dismissing the entire thing.

He didn't think he'd ever seen Shane with a boyfriend. He doubted Shane had ever been in love. Sometimes felt a little sad for him, in the pit of his stomach, though his own love-life was hardly cracking along.

He hadn't felt that in a long time. That tentative, sweet feeling that started as a thorn in the bottom of his stomach, tendrilled out whenever he got a smile, a laugh. Was determined not to feel that way when every evening Mark would look up and greet him as Kian came through the door, give him an almost-excited grin that was barely hidden with an affectation of disinterest. And Kian would smile back, and ask about his day, and try not to notice the times Mark would shift closer to him on the sofa.

Shane's birthday came. They had a small party, the three of them. Mark made a cake. Kian was a little concerned about him burning the kitchen down, but he did well, gave Kian a list of the ingredients to pick up and spent the whole day stirring and pouring and icing, eyes glued to the recipe he'd printed off Kian's laptop.

Mark liked cooking. Often when Kian came home he was in the kitchen, poking around the fridge. Was good at it too. Shane would help. Both of them laughing and nudging each other while Shane whisked and Mark chopped and Kian would come in to amazing smells that filled the house.

Shane blew out his candles. When Mark asked what he'd wished for, he just smirked and refused to say, then kissed Kian on the cheek when his knife touched the plate.

Early on a Saturday Shane went out, said he had errands. Mark was still asleep, was proving to be a late riser, and for the first time in the three weeks Mark had been here Kian found himself sat alone, basking in the silence.

It wasn't something he'd expected to enjoy so much, but after an hour of watching television on his own in the bedroom, getting his laundry sorted, and maybe having a bit of a wank in the shower, he was feeling much better. Not as harried, even if he was trying to be quiet in deference to the boy asleep on the fold out.

He put the radio on and opened a book, sat at the window to read it. It was overcast, the sea a sullen grey swell, and the seals were back again. He found himself watching them more than he was reading, humming along to the radio, and was so absorbed he didn't notice Mark coming up the stairs.

“Hi.” It was soft, but Kian jumped anyway, turned to find Mark peering in through the bedroom door. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“No harm.” Kian smiled. “I was watching the seals.”

“Oh...” Mark stepped closer. Looked out, over Kian's head. The radio was still playing, was on an advert, but while Mark stood there it changed to a song.

“Sit down, if you like.”

“It's okay. I'm intruding.”

“You're not,” Kian promised. Mark looked torn. “Shane's got a story about seals.”

“He hasn't told me that one.” He'd been telling others, though, Kian could tell. “He likes stories.”

“Are you sick of them yet?”

“No. I like them.” Mark settled on the bed, pulling his knees to his chest. “The ones that are definitely made up, anyway. Sometimes I can't tell if he's telling the truth or not, with the other ones.”

“I'd take them with a pinch of salt,” Kian admitted. “Half of the time Shane's stories about himself are as made up as the ones with fairies and goblins in them.” Mark nodded sagely. “You're okay being alone with him? He's not giving you grief or messing you about?”

“No. He's nice.” There was something else, though. Kian tilted his head, saw Mark hesitate, then smile nervously. “Just... I mean, when you asked me to move in, I thought we'd see each other more.”

“I'm sorry.” He was. Wanted to see Mark more too. “Are you not happy here? I didn't mean...”

“I am. Happy.” Mark was going pink. “Or... I mean, I'm grateful, and even though I'm all messed up, I do feel like this is home, sort of. Or it's more one that I remember having. I'm happy,” he said again. “I liked it when it was the two of us, you know? I like Shane, but sometimes he's just a bit...” A guilty look darted across his face. “He tires me out.”

“He's a bit like that,” Kian admitted. “Do you want me to speak to him?”

“No. God.” He shook his head furiously. “I'm not complaining. Really. Forget I said anything.” He lowered his chin to rest on top of his knees, regarding Kian quietly. “It's okay. It's not all the time. Sometimes he sleeps for ages and I get the house to myself.”

“What do you do when you're by yourself?”

“Nothing, really.” Blue eyes darted away. “I erm... I think, a bit. Sometimes I think if it's quiet enough, maybe I'll hear myself telling me who I am.” Kian felt a lump fill his throat that he couldn't explain. “It gets lonely when you don't even have yourself for company.”

“Mark...” Kian pushed himself out of the chair, sat down beside the lost looking boy on the bed. He wrapped an arm around hunched shoulders, pulled him in until he could kiss soft hair. “I'm sorry. I want to help.”

“I know.” Mark's head leaned on his shoulder. “I suppose I'm okay. If I don't know the old me, it's harder to miss it.” He looked up. “Do you think I was nice?”

“I think you'd have to be,” Kian assured him. “I think you're one of the nicest people I've ever met.” Mark looked bashfully away. He brushed dark hair away from a lined forehead. “Tell me what you need, okay? If Shane's tiring you out, I'll take him out and distract him. If you want to come talk to me I'll make time. This is a unique situation for me too.”

“Thanks,” Mark murmured. Kian kissed his hair again. “I erm... I'd like to go outside, actually. Maybe for a proper walk? I feel like the world's all new, sometimes, but I still haven't seen any of it except the hospital and the house.”

“We can do that.” Kian smiled. “Where would you like to go?”

  
  


*

  
  


It was the perfect day for a walk, really. Cool and grey, a gentle breeze washing the smell of salt inland while they meandered down the packed wet sand of the spit, baseball caps shielding them from the squinting glare of the hidden sun.

Mark looked different outside. It was something Kian had noticed before, in the park, and the times they'd sat in the garden. Pale and not quite real, a vulnerable feeling that swathed around him like a peeled grape, shiny and fragile. Everything beautiful. Lips, eyes, hair, the set of him, loping legs and the slope of his nape to his spine, clumsy fingers carrying his shoes; but it was in a way that didn't quite fit, as though all the parts didn't equate to a whole. Something missing. Something connective that couldn't be solved with spit and glue.

He was lovely, though. Better when he smiled. Kian's heart ached, and he put a hand on it to stop it, felt it beat against his palm when he saw blue eyes dart to him, reflecting grey water.

“It's a nice day.”

“It is.” Kian looked at the surf instead, eddying in florets of foam just by their feet. Lines of breakers as far as he could see, threatening choppy weather later. He laughed when Mark crossed quickly in front of him to walk in it, starting a splashing wade through the first inch or so. “How is it?”

“Cold.” He didn't seem perturbed. Moved a little deeper and laughed when a low wave crashed around his ankles, sucking sand away when it retreated. “Was this where you found me?”

“No. Up there a bit.” He pointed to where there was a short climb up the rocks to a foot-high ridge running parallel to the water, though it was partly collapsed where the paramedics had been, all those weeks before.

They approached it slowly. Soon they were climbing the rocks, Kian's hand out to steady Mark, though he didn't appear to need it. The wind was calling louder now, and when Kian looked he could see blue sky inland, over the hills, though the clouds were moving fast to fill it.

It was different in the daytime. Kian realised he hadn't been back here since that night. Passed it from a distance, of course, driving to and from work, but the road was thirty metres away, through scrub and sand. Now it looked small. A wonky, crumbling dip in a sandy ridge, dry and eroded by the outgoing tide.

He glanced at Mark, saw a tongue dart out nervously to wet bitten lips, then retreat.

“You okay?” Mark nodded, stepped a little closer. Kian took his hand without thinking, felt it squeeze fretfully into his. “If it's too much...”

“It's not,” Mark murmured. Their fingers laced together. “I don't remember this.” Kian nodded. “I remember you, but I don't...” He glanced sidelong at Kian. “I'm supposed to remember, aren't I? I mean...” He sighed and stepped down, leaned back to sit on the edge of the ridge. Kian went with him. Unlaced their hands to put an arm around his shoulders. “Fuck.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault. I don't know what I expected.” Mark bit his lip. “I feel like I died here, but I'm still walking around. It's not...” He closed his eyes, pressed his hand to his forehead. “I think things and I feel things, and I don't know if it's the first time I've thought them or if they're old and I'm just finding them again. Who the fuck _am_ I?” He kicked savagely at the loose sand by his feet, sending a spray of it into the water. Kian stayed silent. There was no point interrupting. “Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Kian agreed quietly. Mark snorted. “I don't think you died,” he added, when it became clear Mark was done. “Maybe it was the opposite. Mark, born 27th of May, right here.” A grimace pinched Mark's mouth.

“Does that make you my dad?”

“I hope not,” Kian chuckled awkwardly. “Anyway, there's nothing wrong with not having a dad. I didn't, and I think I turned out okay. Family's what you make of it.” He leaned in to kiss Mark's cheek. “You're family, if you want to be.”

“Family,” Mark breathed. “Honorary Egan?”

“If you want,” Kian snorted. “Not that there's much honorable about it.” Mark smiled and turned towards him, their foreheads nuzzling together. “You stay until you want to go, alright? It's your place too.” Mark nodded, and their noses brushed. Kian pulled away, not liking where this was heading, nor the feelings it was stirring up. It wasn't okay, offering help then making it more, especially when Mark was confused and vulnerable. “You want to keep walking? We could go get the car and find a cafe for lunch, maybe. On me.”

“Sounds nice.” They helped each other back onto the ridge and started to head back. Clambered back down the rocks and were almost back at the house when it began to rain, a light spit that started as needles and quickly turned to bullets.

He was about to start running, turned to say something, and stopped, caught by dark hair beginning to soak, closed eyes turned towards the sky. Mark's lips were curved into a smile, and when Kian stepped closer he saw raindrops trickling down his cheeks, almost like tears.

“You okay?” he murmured. Mark opened his eyes, raindrops webbing the lashes.

“Yeah.” He ran his hands back through his hair, slicking it. His cheeks were flushed, and for a moment he looked startingly alive. "Perfect.” A hand reached out. Kian took it, stepped in closer, and turned his face up too, felt himself shiver in the cold. Hot from the squelching contact between them.

“We'd better go inside,” he said after a minute, though he didn't want to. Wanted to stay here holding Mark's hand, draped in raindrops and listening to the howl of the wind's song.

 


	10. Chapter 10

“ _Well, now that we have seen each other,” said the unicorn, “if you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you.”  
-Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There, Lewis Carroll_

  
  


Lunch was eaten quietly, sat in the back deck of a cafe in town. Nobody bothered them. Baseball caps on and Mark wearing sunglasses, everyone too caught up in looking at their phones or their food or their company to pay them much mind.

Kian wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it wasn't this. Sat casually under the awning and watching runnels of raindrops sluice over the gutters, the patter a calming din on the roof.

He saw a brief smile, flashed from over the lip of a mug, and smiled back. Drying hair where they'd both had a hot shower before getting dressed and coming out. The day was starting to get away from them. Kian wasn't sure where Shane was. He could take care of himself.

“The waiter's looking at you,” Mark mumbled. Kian glanced over his shoulder, saw a lad in black trousers and polo shirt, a white apron knotted about his waist.

“Oh... yeah.” He smirked self-deprecatingly into his chicken salad. Mark had already polished off a hamburger and was picking at the fries that had come with it, though Kian had stolen a couple. “I went out with him last year.”

“Ah. And?”

“It was fine.” Kian shrugged. “Nice enough lad. I said I'd call him.”

“Did you?”

“Not in the end, no.” Shane had shown up, fucked off his face, almost hysterical, eye black and needing a place to stay. By the time it had all blown over Kian had almost forgotten about the nice enough lad, the one he'd seen a movie with and gotten along with okay.

Mark was looking at him curiously.

“He doesn't seem like your type.”

“If you figure out what my type is, let me know,” Kian sighed. Mark snorted. “I don't know. I date, occasionally.”

“What about sex?” Kian almost choked on the lemonade he'd just taken a sip of. Mark was going pink. “Sorry. That was inappropriate.”

“It's fine,” Kian laughed. “Just unexpected. Um.” Mark was still watching him. “I have sex occasionally, also.”

“How long?”

“Er...” He resisted the urge to count on his fingers. “A year and a bit.” He expected a look of surprise, maybe disbelief or disdain, but instead Mark was still staring at him, absorbing his words like a sponge. “I went away for a work thing, just for a couple of nights. Like, a supply roadshow thing. Hooked up with some lad who was visiting from Dorset, peddling mouthguards and safety padding.”

“Ooh, kinky.”

“Ha.” Kian kicked him gently under the table, got a teasing grin in reply. “It was fine. Took him back to my hotel room, we fooled around a bit, then the next night I went to his and we slept together. In the morning we packed up, checked out, and I never saw him again.”

“Tragic.”

“Yeah. Well.” He pushed his plate aside, then stole another of Mark's chips. “This is going to sound like a totally odd question, but do you know if you like boys or girls yet?”

“Bit forward.”

“How long since you had sex?” Kian teased. Mark kicked him. “It's fine if you don't want to answer. I was just wondering.” Mark nodded, but didn't reply. “Do you want dessert?”

“I think I like boys,” Mark said hesitantly.

“I don't think that's on the menu. I can check with the chef.”

“Ha. Fuck off.” Mark scowled playfully while Kian waited for him to continue. “I don't know if I've had sex, you know? I mean, I guess I probably have, because I'm not a teenager, but I don't know...” He worried his lip, then reached for his ginger ale and took a careful sip. “It's hard to say, I guess, because I don't know what I was like before, so maybe this is a new thing, and it's not like I've had a chance to see whether it leads to anything, but yeah, I think I'm... you know.”

“Gay.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that okay?”

“I don't know. It just feels like a thing that sort of is. In a way it's comforting. At least I know one thing about myself.” He smiled awkwardly. “Do you think that's why nobody wants me back? Maybe my family's ashamed of me. Or maybe someone did this to me. Because of what I am.” His fingers twisted nervously together on the table. Kian covered them with his hand, gave a gentle squeeze, and got a questioning look in reply.

“I think if you think about the reasons they didn't want you, you'll go mad.” Mark nodded. “You get to realise, eventually, that it's never about you. People's reasons are whatever makes sense in their own head, or gives them permission to do what they were going to do all along. You _are_ wanted.” He let go and grabbed a chip.

“You've thought about this a lot, huh?”

“More than I'd like to admit.” Mark took the last chip, wiped up the streaks of sauce, and popped it in his mouth. “Split an apple crumble?”

“Sure.” He pushed himself. “Going to the bathroom. You order.” He wandered away from the table, but as he did Kian saw a bright smile darted over a sloping shoulder and smiled back, got a bashful grin in reply.

He flagged down a waiter and asked for dessert.

  
  


*

  
  


The first time Shane had shown up at Kian's it had been not long after he'd moved in. It had been a strange, unreal sort of time. The letter, the realtors, meetings with lawyers that confirmed that yes, actually, the house did belong to him. No sign that anyone had lived in it at all after his mother had left, just abandoned to sit there, power off and falling into disrepair, the paint weathered by salt and wind.

She was somehow even more of a mystery than his absent dad had been, the one that he remembered his mother telling him about when he'd been very small. The man who'd come in from the sea, some transient fisherman probably, who'd seen a good time and left without afterthought.

Kian didn't blame him. Couldn't blame any of them, not when it meant acknowledging that lost anger that sat as a tight cold stone in his chest.

So instead he'd worked. Fixed the place up, used his meagre savings and the small sum of money that had come with the property to repaint the inside and outside until it looked a bit more respectable. Filled the floor with buckets to stop the drips and done his best to repair the roof himself. Spent weeks and months cleaning out cobwebs and throwing out what furniture had rotted and couldn't be saved until all that had been left was the heavy wooden bed in the master bedroom and a chest in the attic carved of dark wood, the clasp a brass sea-shell.

He hadn't thought about that chest in years. Finding it had felt like hope. This strange, unique thing that felt like it was calling him. An heirloom perhaps, full of secrets. Though all it had been full of was some old clothing, the linens moth-eaten and the furs shiny and ragged with time, and a small wooden boat painted blue and white.

It was still in the attic, somewhere, amongst bags of clothes he meant to donate and boxes of old tax receipts.

He'd not known where Shane had been at the time. And over the following year he'd almost forgotten about him, in that strange way of youth where treasured school friends became absent memories after graduation, this boy who'd meant so much to him for so much of his life. It was a fresh start. New house, new town, new friends. A job he'd earned and was doing well at and the beginning of something that finally felt like it belonged to him.

It had been a bright Saturday afternoon, the laundry basket at his feet while he pegged wet shirts to the line in the garden when he'd seen a small figure moving down the spit.

It had been slow. A black shape that had to be coming his way, eventually, because there was nobody else out here and no reason to come, though seal-watchers did occasionally make the trip as far as the gate a hundred metres from the house, the one that reminded people that this was private property.

He waited. Finished pegging the laundry then went inside to make tea when he saw the lope of a familiar stride, weaving slightly in a purposeful amble. He'd just put the pot and two cups on the table in the back garden when Shane clambered over the gate and began the walk up the drive.

Kian met him at the front door, returned the wave, then was pulling his friend into a hug, feeling the soft breath of Shane's squeeze on his ear and a kiss on his cheek, the narrow barrel of ribs beneath baggy clothes.

“Hey,” he'd said. When he'd looked Shane's eyes were closed and there was a smile on his mouth that might have been relief.

They'd had tea silently in the garden, then he'd put Shane to bed. Sat on the sofa by himself while the sunset trickled by in a sputtering blaze of burnt scarlet, then a little longer, watching television and eating his dinner the way he always did, not sure what to make of the figure lying heavy somewhere above his head.

He'd been about ready to go to bed himself when he'd heard a creak of a door and the track of footsteps, had looked up to Shane hesitantly descending the stairs, a hand on the railing like a small child sneaking down well after bedtime.

“Do you want to stay?” he'd asked. Shane had nodded, then come to sit beside him, snuggling in while Kian had put an arm around him and kissed his hair.

“I missed you.” Kian murmured it back. Didn't mention the scabs on Shane's arms, marching in lines, nor how thin he was beneath his clothes. “I'm sorry.”

“For what?” Shane shook his head silently. “Do you want to talk about it?” He didn't ask how Shane had found him. There wasn't any point. Had a feeling, no matter what, that Shane would always find him. “What happened?”

“You should see the other guy,” Shane murmured.

Kian nodded, and kissed his hair again.

  
  


*

  
  


They were driving back along the spit when they saw the seals.

Five of them, sunning themselves on Kian's lawn. He didn't see them at first, was too busy focusing on the road, but then Mark made a soft grunt of surprise and Kian saw a brown head lift up, then the rock of a brown seal lumping it's fat body across the grass on clumsy flippers.

He expected them to scatter when the car pulled up. They never came in this far. To the rocks, or along the sand a bit, maybe, but never right up to the house. He turned off the ignition and climbed out, not sure what to do, whether he was supposed to call someone or ignore them or what. You weren't supposed to touch them, he knew that. There were laws about it, to stop people or the seals getting hurt, but they were between he and his front door, one sprawled beside the path watching them lazily.

“Hello.” Mark was already stepping over to the closest one and crouching down. Kian meant to say stop, don't. Expected it to flee, the way they usually did when people came too close, but...

He watched it nuzzle his hand, Mark giggling at the touch of whiskers.

“What's your name?”

The seal nuzzled him again, then rolled over onto it's back. Mark patted it's belly, and when he looked up Kian couldn't find the words to say stop, because Mark was reaching out a hand and he was going over, crouching down as well to pat the belly of a small brown seal.

It was surprisingly dry, a thin layer of fur that looked like skin in the water but was soft under his palm. It let out a soft snort, making him jump, then blinked at him lazily and allowed it.

“This is mad,” he breathed. Mark looked up.

“Why?”

“They don't usually...” He didn't know how to explain, not while Mark was giving him that curious look, like he wanted Kian to tell him why this wasn't an entirely normal thing to be doing, petting a seal on his front lawn. When he looked over he realised another was coming their way. It sniffed at Mark when it arrived, then flopped down, looking content when Mark gave it a pat. “Looks like you're the seal-whisperer or something. Don't have fish in your pockets, do you?”

“Not that I know of,” Mark chuckled. He stood, dusting his hands. “Do you have any? We could feed them.”

“I don't think you're allowed,” Kian admitted. “Anyway, I'm sure they can sort that out on their own.” Mark nodded. Two others had come closer, looking at them curiously. The fifth was watching them from near the fence.

“Sorry, lads, nothing for you.” One tilted it's head, then turned away, and Kian had the unsettling feeling it had understood.

They both looked up when they heard the creak of a window. Shane peered out, sleepy eyes widening when he saw the seals, Kian and Mark patting one on the front lawn.

“What's going on?”

“We've got visitors, apparently.” The words sounded disbelieving coming from his own mouth. They were already leaving, the one on the path rolling over to begin it's course over the lawn and toward the fence. There was a hole, Kian saw, a gap where the wind had eroded enough weedy sand to let them wriggle underneath. By the time Shane came out the front door the last one was just slipping through and they were off, down the hill and towards the water, where they disappeared into the waves.

An arm settled around Kian's waist. He saw Mark's eyes dart to it, but none of them commented, not even when Shane kissed his temple, and he realised belatedly that it was the injured one, that the cast was off for the first time in six weeks.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Kian put an arm around his friend's shoulders. “Your arm's better.”

“Got it cut off this morning. Itches like a motherfucker.” He seemed okay, if still drowsy, and when he waved his arm gingerly Kian could see that it was pale and pinpricked with red. “I'm making dinner. Wash your hands first.” He threw a contemptuous look towards the seals. “You don't want to catch something.”

Then he pushed back into the house without another word.

  
  


*

  
  


Neither Mark nor Kian were very hungry after the late lunch, but Shane had tried and so Kian forced his way through most of a plate of roast potatoes and chicken parm. It was dark when he cleared the plates away and wrapped up the leftovers for the next day. Mark helped, washing while Shane dried, and for a while it was companionable in the little kitchen.

Shane was off, though. Talking too fast, all at once, then going silent for long stretches until he was engaged again, like a wind-up toy running on a single twist at a time. Kian didn't miss the sideways looks, nor the lack of conversation about what had gone on that afternoon. If he knew Shane he'd dismissed the whole thing. Because with Shane all the stories were about him. Other people's stories were just a launchpad to something outrageous and oddly impersonal, a fabrication in the tale Shane was building about his own life.

It sounded harsh. Didn't feel harsh. Shane didn't mean to be selfish. Kian wondered sometimes if it was easier, maybe. If caring about other people was too much like letting go, dropping that shell of self-defence that Kian felt privileged enough to peek through, on the odd occasion Shane could see past his own demons. If maybe it was jealousy. That something exciting or happy might be happening to someone else, while Shane sat in a fog weaving the beginnings of another pretense.

“What did you do today?” Mark asked, as Kian finished wiping down the kitchen table.

“Job-hunting.” Shane took the wet plate Mark offered, wiped it carelessly with a tea-towel, then put it away. “Went alright. Had a few people interested, but apparently I was over-qualified.”

“To do what?”

“You know. Things.” Shane dropped the last fork in the cutlery drawer, then pushed it shut. “I'll try again tomorrow.”

“Well, good luck,” Mark offered. “I'm sure you'll find something.” He pulled the plug out then dried his hands on the damp tea-towel Shane handed him. “What would you like to do?”

“Dunno. Anything.” They went through to the living room. Kian collapsed onto the sofa, saw the two of them jostle for a moment over who was going to sit where before Mark sank into the armchair and Shane sat down beside Kian, legs pulled up on the seat. “I worked at a supermarket for a while, and I worked in an office too.”

“Doing what?”

“You know. Emails and clients and things.” He'd worked in the mail-room for almost six months, Kian knew, probably the longest he'd held down a job. It had been a brief, wonderfully lucid period not long after he'd arrived the first time, and Kian had been happy for him. For the sudden drive and commitment, the way he'd barely call in sick and would come home with stories about the people he'd met and the friends he was making.

Then he'd come home one day and said he wasn't going back in. That the boss was a cunt and he was quitting out of protest.

Kian still wasn't sure how true that was.

“What about construction?” Kian suggested. “They're always looking for day labourers at the quarry, or to help with harvest on the local farms.” Shane wrinkled his nose. “I know you're delicate, but a bit of sweat never killed anyone. Or there's the temp agency in town.”

“I'll look into it. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Mark's got an appointment with the social worker, then I thought we might head into town and see a film, if you'd like an outing?” Shane shrugged. “Something loud and violent?”

“Can we have Nandos?”

“If you like,” Kian chuckled. “I'll text you, yeah? You can come meet us after your job-search.” Shane looked pleased with that. “I was thinking, actually. If you're both staying for a while maybe we should clear out the spare room and I can put an extra bed in there.”

“I don't mind the fold-out,” Mark said quickly. “I don't want to be in the way.”

“You're not. I've been meaning to clear it out anyway. God knows I haven't used that treadmill in forever.” Nor the desk, nor the other crap he'd shoved in there and left. It had become more of a large, tidy storage closet than a room, in recent years. “We could use a bit more space around here, anyway, and I wouldn't mind my living room back.”

Mark shifted uncomfortably, but it was true. Having to always step around someone, tiptoeing around because Mark was still sleeping. Knowing Mark was staying up later than them when he was tired because he didn't want to have to kick them out of his makeshift bedroom...

“It's just a thought,” Kian said. “I really don't mind.”

“Whatever you think's best,” Mark said diplomatically. Shane was already distracted by the television.

  
  


 


	11. Chapter 11

_They replied that they had seen nobody leave but a young girl, very shabbily dressed, and who had more the air of a poor country wench than a gentlewoman.  
\- Cinderella, Charles Perrault_

 

The stars were bright, painted in a white, shattered brushstroke across the midnight sky. Kian reached for them. Cold pinpricks that smudged as his fingers passed, disturbing the surface of the black water. Felt it fill his lungs and then breathed it out, starlight and salt on his tongue.

The water was alive around him. Shapes lurking miles below, drifting whales, scattered fish. The indivisible banks of jellyfish on the surface. For a moment he could feel it. Down to the smallest worms and crabs in the rocks. Monstrous deep-sea fish all teeth and deadened inner light just as beautiful as the flowering anemones waving in the reefs. The bacteria around the scalding vents on the sea-floor, life where it should be impossible.

He breathed in again. Felt the ocean breathe too and hung there, knees to his chest, curled in the embrace of the sea.

  
  


*

  
  


The stars were still bright when he woke. Startlingly clear late-spring night, and the moonlight was streaming in, a perfect painted ring of yellow leaving a trail across the bedroom floor, it's fingers reaching the duvet when Kian sat up, disoriented, the cold of the sea still trickling out of his dream and into his veins.

He shook himself. Shane, snoring beside him, the moonlight picking out eerie trails of shadow across his face. Kian bent down to kiss his cheek, felt a snuffling shift, then watched him settle again, turned in towards Kian and hands clasped into his own chest like a prayer.

Kian crept out as carefully as possible. Used the bathroom then headed downstairs with the lights off, letting his feet find the way on the creaky floorboards, a hand on the wall to steady his path.

He blinked in the light of the fridge, stood there staring into it sleepily, then scooped out a bottle of ice water and took a swig. Happened to glance to the side, and saw the fold out, sheets pushed to the side and the mattress bare.

Hesitated. A clinging uncertainty in his stomach dulled by sleep. Put the bottle back and took a few steps closer, but the bed was empty, the pillow turned sideways and scrunched in the middle like someone had been clinging to it.

Mark wasn't in the downstairs bathroom either. Kian checked all the rooms. Heard a creak above him and went upstairs to investigate, but instead it was just Shane, stood at the bedroom window and looking out.

“What's he doing?” Shane murmured sleepily, and when Kian went to stand beside him he could see a dark figure breaking the endless moonlit band of the water's edge.

“Dunno.” He leaned his elbows on the sill. Shane was half asleep. Kian wasn't sure what had woken him, though Shane had always been an erratic sleeper, either tossing and turning all night or out like a log, depending on the circumstances.

It had kept Kian up in their first foster home; the squeak of springs and the constant rustling of sheets as he changed positions. Then, when he'd thought Shane finally asleep, sometimes he'd open his eyes and see dark ones looking back at him, spilling silent tears, and he'd climb out, feet quick on the cold floorboards, and slide in beside him. Hold him tight until the tears stopped and Shane would fall asleep, tense and troubled in his arms.

A soft pang tugged at his heart. He put his arm around his friend's waist, got an absent smile until they both looked out the window again.

Mark was sat at the edge, cross-legged in the sand. Kian couldn't see him properly, just the distant shape on the other side of the fence, but the water was rushing up around him, and Kian watched it cover him up to his hips before rushing back out again.

It had to be cold. After midnight, a wind shifting the scrub climbing the dunes, but Mark didn't seem perturbed. Was just sat there, in the surf, hands braced behind him for purchase.

“Should we go out?” Shane asked. Kian shook his head.

“Leave him, maybe.” He looked at Shane, saw worried eyes. “Give him some space.” Shane nodded carefully. “Maybe he's one of your selkies,” he teased gently. “Got washed ashore and now he can't find his skin or whatever.” Shane snorted.

“Yeah. Good one.” Shane pushed away from the windowsill, from Kian's grip. “I'm going back to bed.” He flopped back onto the mattress, rolled clumsily under the covers. “Night Kian.”

“Night, Shay.” He turned back to the window, but as he stood there watching Mark he felt eyes on his back, ones that were were studying him carefully, a hot trickle down his nape.

When he looked around again they were closed.

Kian turned back to the window.

  
  


*

  
  


Mark was back on the foldout when Kian came downstairs, fast asleep and looking as though he'd never left. He was beautiful. Peaceful and soft and his hands tucked under his cheek, legs tangled in the duvet and pyjamas a little twisted.

His damp clothes were in the hamper in the bathroom, scrunched where they'd been wrung out, and when Kian bent to brush his teeth he could see a few last grains of sand caught in the edges of the plughole, though they were gone with a spit and a rinse.

When he came out Mark was sat up, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“Morning.” Kian nodded on the way past. Mark nodded back, yawning. “Sleep okay?” Mark nodded again. “Social worker's coming in a couple of hours. We'll have a tidy when you're awake.”

“Cool.” It was half-muffled with another yawn. “Shane?”

“Still sleeping.”

“Mm.” Mark flopped back down, eyes closing. Kian smirked and sat down beside him to stretch his legs on the bed. A hand groped gently at his thigh and he patted it, laughing. Mark wasn't good at mornings. “Are you and Shane sleeping together?”

Kian laughed out loud, surprised. Saw an eye crack open and a blush spill into pale cheeks. “Er...” He chuckled. “No. Only in the most literal sense.” The eye closed again and Mark turned his face downwards, hiding it slightly. “Why do you ask?”

“Don't know. You're close. Figured I should check.” Kian ran a hand gently through his hair. “Have you ever?”

“With Shane? No. We're not like that.” Mark nodded. “I told you yesterday. It's been a while.”

“Yeah, but...” Mark shrugged awkwardly. “Forget it. I'm being stupid.” He rolled away onto his back, putting both hands over his face for a moment before dropping them. “Um.”

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” Mark had been about to say something, Kian was sure of it. “It's nice, then. That you're that close.”

“We've always been there for each other,” Kian explained. “Even when we had nobody else. He's about the closest thing to a brother I've ever had.” Mark was watching him curiously, and for once he wanted to say more, even if it was just because someone was actually listening. “I don't remember my mam much,” he said. “I remember what she felt like, these big soft hugs, and sometimes she'd sing, sit me at the kitchen table with cereal and do the housework and put the radio on.”

“What about your da?”

“Never knew him. I don't think she did either, to be fair. Some one night stand, probably a lad off one of the fishing boats that came in for the seasonal trawling then fucked off back to wherever he came from.” Mark nodded seriously. “I guess I'm a bit of a mystery too.” He attempted a comforting smile, but didn't get one back. “She just left one day. Locked the door and went out, and left me in the house.”

“Jesus.” Mark looked shocked. “That must have been scary.”

“I don't remember,” Kian admitted. “I remember my mam, a bit, and the next thing I remember is a policeman dropping me off with this couple in a house in Dundalk. That must have been almost four years later. The rest...” He shrugged. “The psychologist said I was repressing, but I don't know really. I just remember Shane asking if I wanted to help him build a blanket fort.” Mark giggled softly. “It was a good fort.”

“Castle Greyskull,” said a soft voice from the stairs. They both looked round, Mark propping himself up to see over the back of the sofa. “Morning.”

“Morning.” Shane slumped across the living room to the kitchen, then put the kettle on. “Anyway, that's the really interesting story of my amazing family.” Mark snorted and sat up properly, began to clamber off the side of the bed. Kian did too and they began to strip the sheets and pillows, tossing them onto the floor for the meantime.

“What about Shane's family?”

“I only know he was removed,” Kian said simply, voice low so Shane wouldn't hear him. Shane didn't like being talked about, especially when it meant he couldn't control his own narrative. Mark seemed to take the hint and they continued stripping the bed in silence, folded it back in and tidied the sofa. By the time the sheets were folded and being slid underneath to be used again that night Shane was coming out with three coffees juggled in his hands, though the one held in his injured arm was trembling slightly.

Kian thanked him, surprised, even moreso when Shane ducked out and came back with a plate of scones, warmed in the microwave, and a jar of jam.

“Thought I'd do breakfast,” Shane said stiffly, then sat down, ending the conversation by putting his mug to his lips. “Eat them before they get cold.”

  
  


*

  
  


The social worker came just before midday. They were just finishing tidying when Shane went to the window and said a car was pulling up. A few seconds later Kian heard the familiar sound of crunching gravel and a door clicking open.

“Detective's with her,” Shane announced. Kian glanced out. He was right. There she was, neat and professional in a pantsuit, dark hair tied back in a ponytail, and behind her the detective. Nicky. Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, sunglasses propped up on his hair. “He's sort of a babe. Wonder if he's single.”

“Want me to ask?” Kian teased. Mark snorted and stood up as well, going to stand beside them. It probably looked strange, three heads squashed curiously in the window, and as they got closer he saw Nicky's eyes fix on them and a confused smile dart across his face until all three of them ducked out of sight, like boys caught spying through a neighbour's fence.

“Why are we hiding?” Mark whispered. Shane giggled.

Kian answered the door. Got them in while Shane went to put the kettle on and opened a packet of biscuits.

“Lads.” She shook both he and Mark's hands. Friendly lass, Jodi. Young, but well put together and seemed to have her head screwed on right. British, though Kian didn't know why anybody would leave England to come here, some quiet coastal town in the middle of nowhere. “The detective asked if he could come along, if that's alright.”

“It's fine!” Shane called from the kitchen. “Milk?”

“Er... yeah, and sugar.” Nicky chuckled. “Cheers, Shane. How's the arm?”

“Better!” He came back out with a tray of mugs. “Ta for asking.” He put it down on the coffee table. “Mark's been helping out with the cooking and house-work and stuff while I get meself back to normal.” Mark was nodding, and Kian hoped it didn't sound like they were exploiting him, the evil stepsisters to his Cinderella. Shane had a version of that too, though it had more maiming in it.

“It's been my pleasure.” Mark patted him on the shoulder. “Do we know who I am yet?”

“Working on a couple of leads. I wanted to ask you a few questions if that's alright?” They all nodded. “Alone.”

“Oh. Sorry, we'll...”

“Have your tea first. It can wait,” Nicky chuckled. “Ta for the biscuits.” He picked up his mug and dunked one quickly. “Seems like everything's running pretty smoothly around here.”

It was. Shane's sudden liveliness aside, the conversation with Jodi was short and simple. She seemed happy enough with the living arrangements, especially when Kian mentioned converting the spare room into somewhere more permanent for Mark to sleep. She took a walk around, but the place was tidy and there didn't seem to be any reason for concern.

“You're happy here still?”

“Yeah. Really happy.” Blue eyes darted shyly to Kian. “Kian's been good to me. Shane as well.” He smiled and Kian smiled helplessly back, heart a skip in his chest.

After the inspection Kian took Shane upstairs to watch television, leaving the others downstairs. He could hear them, sort of, voices drifting up, and shut the door to give them more privacy, though he got a scowl from Shane who wandered over and pressed his ear to the door while Kian sat down on the bed.

“Leave it,” Kian laughed. “It's none of your business.” Shane pouted.

“You don't want to hear?”

“If Mark wants us to know, he'll tell us himself,” Kian reasoned, though he couldn't deny he was interested as well. Probably just protocol, to tell the person involved on their own, but he did wonder what was so secretive. Maybe checking to make sure Mark's story held up once he was out of everyone's view, that Kian wasn't making him lie.

“I heard my name.”

“Brilliant. Get away from there.” Shane sulked back over, then flopped down on the mattress with a thump and a creak. “Don't be a sook.”

“I'm not.” He folded his arms behind his head. “Are you fucking him?'

“What? No! Jesus...” Shane's eyes were hard, though, and he didn't smile. “Of course not. Why do you think that?”

“You like him, though.”

“I think he's a very nice lad and I'm helping him out,” Kian explained. Shane didn't look convinced. “It's nothing to do with sex.”

“Do you want to?”

“He's cute, but it's not...” Shane was wrinkling his nose dismissively, but there was something else in his eyes, something offended, almost hurt. “It wouldn't be right. He doesn't know who he is. I'd be taking advantage.”

“He's a grownup.”

“And what if he's got a family somewhere? Or he's married and has five kids and one day he remembers? Then what the fuck have I done?” It was something that had been worrying him, though he hadn't spared it any direct thought. His increasing feelings aside, this wasn't forever. Couldn't be. Because whoever Mark was now wasn't him, was instead some intricate painting that had been covered over with a sheet that couldn't stay, no matter how pretty the pattern on it was.

Mark would leave. Maybe soon.

It wasn't worth it, to be alone again.

“If you want to fuck him I can sleep downstairs again.” There was a challenge in Shane's voice. Kian wasn't sure what the correct response was.

“I'm fine. Cheers.” He took Shane's hand. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Shane rolled his eyes. “Forget it.” He climbed off and went to the window. “He's weird. You know that, right?”

“The whole situation is...”

“No, _he's_ weird.” Kian shrugged, not sure what Shane was striking at. “Come on, Kian. The seals in the yard yesterday? What the fuck was that? He gets washed up on the beach, fucking _naked_ of all things, and then he's sneaking down there at night? Do you know how long he spends in the bath? It was two hours the other day.”

“I...” Kian shook his head. He hadn't been home as often as he wanted. If there were strange patterns he couldn't speak to them. “He's lost.”

“Then why hasn't anyone claimed him? Weeks on the telly and not one single person notices him missing? Nobody recognises his picture? There's fucking nothing on him to say who he was or where he came from? That's not right.” He leaned on the windowsill, back to Kian. “I caught him going through the kitchen cupboards the first day you were gone, and when I asked what he was looking for he said nothing. On Wednesday he was going through drawers in the spare room. What's he looking for?”

“I don't know, Shane, you'd have to ask him,” Kian snapped. He knew where this was going and didn't like it, cursed himself for saying something so offhand the night before. If he knew Shane his friend had already forgotten the conversation, had mixed it up with whatever weird dreams he'd had and woken up with odd ideas in his head. “Say what you mean.”

“He's a selkie,” Shane said triumphantly, and turned around. “He's lost his skin and he's searching the house because he thinks you've got it.” His arms crossed. “It makes sense.”

“Like when you were thirteen and thought it made sense that they were poisoning us?”

“I was sick for a week.”

“Because you ate too much chocolate.”

“It stopped when I stopped eating the food.”

“No, you were fucking hospitalised after you fainted at school, because you'd been hiding meals in a shoebox under your bed for six weeks. Do you know how long the fucking smell of rotten food hung around?” Kian remembered finding it, guiltily calling up the foster dad to show him and rubbing tears from his eyes when he'd been taken into the hospital to see Shane, skinny arms hooked to tubes and his friend's face pale and still.

“That was different.”

“It's _always_ different,” Kian shot back. “It's always the next time and it's always different, Shane. There's no fairy-tale here, there's just a guy who needs help. It's not a grand conspiracy. It's not about _you_.” Shane's lips pursed, fists clenching in the cross of his arms. Kian realised his heart was beating too fast and forced himself to breathe, tried to hold down the terrified anger building in his chest. “Can you stop being fucking crazy for five seconds?”

“Screw you.” Shane's voice broke, as the guilt flushed into Kian's stomach. He swallowed, reached out, though Shane flinched away.

“I'm sorry. You're not...”

“Fuck off.”

“I...” He stepped closer, put a hand on his friend's arm. It yanked away again. “I'm sorry. I'm stressed and it wasn't...” Fair. None of this was fair. “Shay.” He wanted to hug him, but Shane was backing away, stiff and defensive. “I don't think you're crazy.”

“Just... leave it. It's fine.” Shane wasn't looking at him. “Guess I was being stupid again. Crazy fucking Shane. Why should anyone believe me about anything?” He turned away again. “Don't talk to me.”

“Shay.”

“Don't.” Shane turned back to the window. Kian sank onto the bed in silence, eyes fixed on a tense back and dark hair.

It was twenty minutes later that Mark came up and said Nicky and Jodi were off if they wanted to say goodbye. Shane went down, politely wished them a safe drive, then stepped into the back garden. When Kian looked out the window he wasn't there, though a few seconds later he saw a small figure making it's way up the spit to town, moving quickly on foot.

When Mark asked, Kian said Shane had gone for a walk.

Then he went into the bathroom and cried for a bit.

 


	12. Chapter 12

“ _Why, as for that,” answered Oz, “I think you are wrong to want a heart. It makes most people unhappy. If you only knew it, you are in luck not to have a heart.”  
\- The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum_

  
  


It had been safe, under the blankets. Kian and Shane had spent a lot of time there over the next few years. It had felt like spinning a world, just for themselves. Something close and comfortable that muffled the outside, where people had to ask permission to come in. Shane would make passwords. Elaborate songs or poems that would change whenever his mood did, and they'd giggle together on the inside while the two girls who slept up the hall cast sulking shadows on the white sheets and asked why they couldn't just come in and play.

Because it's ours, had been the answer. They built them fairly often, usually on the weekends. Would start early when they weren't being taken on an outing, and prop up chairs and cushions and all the sheets they could find and stay there in their little tent, laid on their stomachs playing boardgames and creating stories with their action figures.

“Shh...” Shane hissed, at the sound of footsteps in the hall, and they both froze, silently smirking. Kian suspected they were a little too old for this, at twelve, but he didn't mind. In here it didn't matter.

“Can I come in?”

“What's the password?” Shane called back, and he heard a laugh and blinked as the edge of the sheet lifted and two bowls of apple pie slid underneath. “Thank you!”

“Thanks!” Kian agreed. It was fresh, too, with vanilla ice-cream.

“You're welcome. Are you staying in there all day?”

“Nobody ever leaves Castle Greyskull,” Shane announced. Kian rolled his eyes.

“Well, if you'd like to go to the cinema we're taking Leah and Sinead this afternoon.”

“Can we see Hook?”

“If you like.” Two forks slid underneath as well. They each grabbed one. “I'll come get you when it's time to get ready.”

“Thanks,” Kian managed around a mouthful of pie. Her footsteps retreated. “I want to see Mighty Ducks.”

“Hook looks better,” Shane argued idly. “Who cares about dumb old hockey? Hook's got magic and pirates and stuff. They get to fight with swords and no stupid grown-ups to tell you what to do.” He pulled a face. “I wouldn't mind being a lost boy.”

“We are lost,” Kian pointed out. “I don't know if I'd be good at sword fighting.”

“You could fly as well. Pixie dust and happy thoughts and away you'd go.”

“What's your happy thought?”

“Dunno.” Shane lifted a forkful of pie thoughtfully to his mouth, then wiped off the dribble of ice-cream on his chin while he chewed. “You,” he said shyly. “You're my happy thought.”

“Oh.” Kian felt himself blush. “What did I do?”

“You're my best friend.” He leaned in, and Kian was surprised when lips pressed to his, a clumsy, chaste kiss that didn't feel like it looked in the movies, just a mouth pursing against his before it pulled away and Shane looked back into his bowl, cheeks red.

He wasn't prepared for the rush of... something. He didn't know what it was. Felt like being warm and tingly and embarrassed and happy and furious all at once, a confusion of emotion that started in his stomach and burst outward, like a tree full of songbirds disturbed by a hawk.

His swallow stuck in his throat. He wriggled on his stomach, not sure whether he wanted to shake off the feeling or drown in it.

“You're my happy thought too,” he murmured.

  
  


*

  
  


Kian didn't want to admit that he was waiting for Shane to come back. Mark asked where he'd gone, and when Kian had said out for a bit he'd hoped that would be the case. Still, by the time dark fell and it became clear that Shane wasn't returning he relented and made dinner for two, leaving Mark sat on the sofa and looking confused as to why Kian was so quiet.

He seemed to read the situation, though. They watched television in near silence, and when Kian finally went up to bed Mark asked if he'd mind them sleeping in the same bed, if Shane wasn't going to be using the empty space.

Kian appreciated it. Hadn't realised, over the last few months, just how used he'd gotten to having someone beside him. The rhythm of someone else's breath and the shift of them in the night. Mark slid in and when Kian closed his eyes he felt a hand settle comfortingly on his forearm before pulling away with a last squeeze.

“Night, Kian,” Mark whispered.

“Goodnight.” The breeze through the window made him shiver and he pulled the blankets higher. “Was everything okay today? Were they able to help?”

“Not really, but it was fine.” Mark's voice was soft and warm, dragging him down. “Don't worry about that now. You need to sleep.” Kian yawned, heard a low chuckle that made him smile.

The next thing he knew Mark was sliding back into bed. Kian opened his eyes. Wondered if the toilet flushing had woken him or if Mark had just gone for a glass of water. But when he looked he could see Mark's hair was damp, even in the scant light, and he was shivering slightly.

He reached out. Felt a flinch when he touched the back of Mark's head, felt hair cold and stringy slipping through his fingers.

“I just...”

“You don't have to explain,” Kian promised. He felt Mark nod. “Do you want to tell me?”

“No,” Mark breathed. “I don't know how.” He let out a careful sob, and when Kian shifted closer to wrap around him he felt him shake, felt wet hair press to his cheek and a hand clench in his.

Mark didn't cry. They lay there a long time, and when Kian woke again the sun was coming up and Mark was buried in his chest, arms around his waist and head tucked under Kian's chin. He stroked a long back. Heard a snore and felt the stiffness of salt-dried hair on his neck.

The rest of the house was empty. He felt it as surely as he could feel the funk of humidity that suggested incoming rain. Shane hadn't been home. Probably for the best. They hadn't done anything wrong, but he knew Shane well enough to assume he wouldn't have been ecstatic finding Mark and Kian in bed together, especially not after yesterday's conversation.

“Don't go,” Mark muttered, when Kian went to extricate himself.

“I've got to get ready for work,” he whispered back. Mark grumbled but let go, leaving Kian to stumble off the side of the bed and toward the shower. When he came back Mark was asleep again, and stayed that way while Kian gathered his clothes and got dressed in the bathroom then headed out the door with a last glance at the man tangled in the duvet, his foot a dangling weight off the side of the bed.

Bryan arrived ten minutes after he did, two coffees held in a cardboard tray. Kian took his gratefully. He was tired. Didn't feel like being here at all, but he couldn't start to neglect his other responsibilities. He shut himself in the office until opening and resisted the urge to fall asleep on the desk. When he came out Bryan asked if he was well enough to be working and a quick glance in the mirror proved he he looked terrible. Hollow eyes and pale skin.

“I can man the floor,” Bryan suggested. Mondays were always quiet anyway, and school was back so they were unlikely to have as much business during the day. “Karen's on at eleven. Do you want to do inventory or something out back?”

“I can't...” He felt his voice break, and decided protestations were useless. “Thanks, Bryan.” Relenting felt worse. He went to sit in the office again, and it was two hours later, spreadsheets blurring in front of his eyes that Bryan stuck his head in and asked if Kian wanted to join him on a smoke break.

It was still humid. A heavy, muggy feeling that stuck his clothes to his skin and made the air feel like soup. They sat on the stoop in the loading bay, Bryan with a cigarette in one hand and Kian with another coffee, an instant one he'd made in the tiny office lunch-room.

“Want to talk about it?”

“It's fine,” he managed. Bryan nodded. “Just... hectic weekend. Went from good to shite in about five seconds.”

“Know the feeling.” Bryan lifted the cigarette with nicotine-stained fingers. “How's everything going with your B&B?” Kian shrugged, though his face apparently betrayed him. “Things not going well with Mark?”

“It's not him.” Kian sighed. “He's lovely, actually. Really nice lad, always helps out. Just Shane...” He didn't want to be an arsehole, couldn't even start with saying something disparaging about his oldest friend. “He's a bit unpredictable, mood-wise. I feel like I'm always running interference.”

“What, he's mean to him or something?”

“No. I don't know.” Kian bit his lip. “With Shane you're sort of running interference between him and himself, if you know what I mean.” Bryan nodded. “Sometimes he's wonderful, and then something sets him off or he gets an idea in his head and there's no talking to him.”

“You're saying that to a man with daughters,” Bryan chuckled. “Molly went stomping off and slammed her door yesterday because her sister drank the last chocolate milk, so I don't have a clue.” A hand patted Kian on the shoulder. “Gets exhausting when it's all the time.”

“It does.” He looked at Bryan, who was down to the last of his cigarette. “I feel like an arsehole. If I'm here I'm guilty because they're at home, but I've got work too and sometimes, honestly, it feels better to be here. Because then I'm not dealing with it.”

“Spoken like a parent.” He got a conspiratorial wink. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Well, you're worried about them, and you're worried about work. When did you last worry about yourself?”

“I...” Kian hesitated. “I dunno,” he admitted. “There's not time.”

“There's always time. Fuck, when did you last date?”

“What's a date?”

“Ha.” An elbow nudged him. Bryan stubbed his cigarette on the step between them, then flicked the butt into the ashtray. “Leave the kids one night and come to the pub. We'll get trashed.” He stood up. “Not everything's your responsibility, mate. You burn out if you try to carry too much at once.”

“Yeah.” It sounded fair, in theory. “Thanks for the chat.”

“No bother. Take it easy today, yeah? You work harder than any of us. Nobody'll mind.” Bryan stood. “I barely put effort in on the best days.”

“Do we have to have a conversation in my office?”

“Just did.” Bryan pushed open the loading bay door. “Take your time. I'll send Karen to lunch.” The door swung closed again under it's own weight, and Kian waited until he was definitely alone before he buried his face in his hands, just needing somewhere to rest a head that felt like it was pounding.

He wondered if Mark was okay.

  
  


*

  
  


The house smelled wonderful when he pushed open the front door that night. He paused in the doorway, breathing it in. Not sure what it was but he could smell spices and bread, hear the soft clatter of movement down the hall.

He found Mark in the kitchen, a wooden spoon in one hand while he peered into a bubbling pot.

“What's all this?”

“Dinner.” Mark licked whatever was on the spoon, nodded, then reached for the salt. He looked over his shoulder, saw Kian, and smiled. “Go have a shower if you want. It'll be fifteen minutes.”

“I...” Overwhelmed was an understatement. “Okay. Thanks.” Every step was an effort as he climbed the stairs, but soon he was stood under hot running water, the pressure easing his tense muscles.

When he came back down the table was set with a clean white tablecloth, a couple of candles glowing in the middle. He was still staring in surprise when Mark came out of the kitchen with a covered dish in his hands, set it on the table, and buzzed back into the kitchen.

“No peeking!”

Kian pulled his hand back. Sat down at the table and waited until Mark reappeared with a plate of warm garlic bread and a large bowl of brown rice.

“You didn't have to...”

“I had all day, figured I'd make use of the slow cooker.” Mark sat down too, and despite his casual tone he was blushing slightly, looked a little shy. “Anyway, it seemed like you needed a break, so I thought I'd...” He gestured at the candles. “You know.”

“It's perfect.” He wanted to cry. Mark was still watching him and Kian wanted more than anything to express how much he appreciated it, but couldn't find the words. “Um.” Mark uncovered the pot. Some sort of casserole. It smelled amazing. He sat, dumbfounded, while Mark ladelled it into his bowl and added some rice, then set it in front of him.

“So.” Mark began to serve himself while Kian reached for a piece of bread. “How was your day?”

“Long.” Mark nodded but didn't press him. “How was it today? Were you alright on your own?”

“I was fine.” The bread was amazing. He dipped the corner into the sauce and had to stop his eyes rolling back in his head when it touched his tongue. “It's okay?” Kian nodded furiously around a full mouth. “I didn't have much to work with, but I used that steak Shane bought before he went and the last of the mushrooms, plus some sauce and beans I found in the pantry. I didn't think he'd mind. It would have gone off before he got back.”

“He won't mind,” Kian assured him, after he'd finished savouring his mouthful. “You're quite the cook, you know that?”

“I like doing it.” Blue eyes dropped shyly. “I dunno if it's something I was good at before but... I dunno. There's something right about it. Like my hands know what they're supposed to be doing.” Kian nodded.

“That's a good sign, then?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe I've never done it before. New talent.” He shrugged and picked up his fork. “Maybe it's comforting, in a way. Like the recipe's there and I just do what it says, so I don't have to try to figure out things from scratch. Plus it takes up time, you know? Like, instead of just sitting around all day.”

“You can go out if you want. You don't have to wait for me.”

“It's not the same.” He pushed a mouthful in, then chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed. “I'd feel better with you there. In case things get...” Kian watched him stir absent patterns in his sauce. “I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet.”

“Understood.” Kian reached over to squeeze his hand, felt it hook into his for a moment. “Tell you what, why don't I take you to the supermarket tomorrow evening? I finish around five, I can swing by and pick you up. You use my laptop during the day, print out any recipes you want to try, and we can get all the ingredients.”

“If it's not too much...”

“It's not,” he said firmly, and let go, because this food was delicious and he couldn't wait to eat more.

“I'd like that,” Mark murmured. He picked his fork back up as well, face soft and happy in the light of the candles.

  
  


*

  
  


The dream was different.

Eyes open and the salt blistering them, driven by the wind. Lungs working and air filling them instead of water. Pulling towards the shore, the webbing of his hands dragging him forward, legs working from behind but bound together, longer, feet tilling the surf and infinite power in the slow, thrusting roll of motion, playing harmony to the rush of the waves.

Sand scraped at his belly as he hauled himself up, felt fur and muscle slough away, and blinked with fresh eyes that peered into the darkness, to the lights of the little house at the edge of the spit. His skin he draped about his shoulders with a cloak secured with a brass seashell, and when he moved he could see the play of hair and muscle, separated by pale skin that caught the moonlight.

The door was open. She looked up. Warm inside and the smell of food.

He's asleep, she said, and when he stepped closer he couldn't tell if it was fright in her eyes or desire.

He climbed the stairs, a little ungainly on legs he barely used. The room was small. A crib in one corner, the ceiling studded with small stars that glowed artificial and slightly green, picking out a pile of soft toys, a shelf with picture books, and a closet door with pictures taped to it, drawings of cartoon creatures with white-gloved hands and eyes too big for their heads.

He leaned over the crib. Chubby arms and chubby legs, a thumb lodged firmly in his mouth. Spill of blonde hair that hadn't been cut and curled a little at the ends.

Kian, he murmured, and when eyes stirred sleepily open he saw the surface of a lagoon on a summer's day.

  
  


*

  
  


Kian jolted awake.

Sat up, racing heart. Tears spilling down his cheeks, senseless, while he tried to breathe through the ones that had lodged in his lungs, prickles of ice under his skin.

And through it all, something warm. Bright. Lost that couldn't be found again.

Early morning. He could hear the croak of gulls. The bedroom was painted in a half-lit glow, almost green from the rising sun. Tried to remember the dream but could only find the feeling of it, something that radiated with sadness and love, that made his heart ache though he couldn't remember why.

The bed was empty beside him. He pushed slowly out, wondering if Mark was downstairs, or had popped into the bathroom, but the house felt silent and he couldn't remember waking to the boy's night-time routine. Pushed the curtains open to let the sun in, and froze when he saw a slumped figure on the sand, a tangle of arms and legs above the low tideline.

He ran.

Down the stairs. Out the door. Wind catching his pyjama bottoms and grass prickling his feet until he vaulted the fence and landed clumsily in the sand. It sank as he moved, slowing him down, and by the time he made it to Mark he was breathing heavily around the panic in his throat, thighs burning and brow sweaty with the morning heat.

“Mark.” He fell to his knees. Pyjamas twisted, sodden with drying sand. Eyes closed. Cheek reddened from the sun. A small crab fell from his hair and scuttled away and Kian sobbed, shaking him.

Blue eyes cracked open.

“What time is it?” Mark croaked.

“Fuck.” He fell over the boy, hugging him. It was returned, a hesitation later. “I thought...” He felt Mark cough, a heaving shudder, and let go slightly. Pulled back to see a confused gaze and sandy hair.

He got Mark into the house. It was a slow walk. The lad was half asleep. Kian suspected he knew already what had happened, that Mark had gone out for one of his midnight sessions at the beach and fallen asleep. It didn't make it any easier. He got Mark into the bathroom, made him strip off and throw his clothes out the door before he got into the shower, and by the time he came out again Kian was stood over the kitchen sink, rinsing the sand away.

He wasn't sure why he was so angry, but standing there, wringing viciously at the wet clothes, he couldn't tell if he wanted to shout or cry. For his own panic, maybe, or for Mark, whose footsteps were light and worried on the staircase, and whose touch on his shoulder felt like an apology.

“Kian?”

“It's fine,” he managed gruffly. The hand squeezed. “You okay?”

“Kian.” He was tugged until he turned, and when he saw eyes too close to his and the sunburn on Mark's cheek he couldn't help it. Fell into the offered embrace as the sobs took him over, wet hands clasping on the back of Mark's neck.

They stayed there like that. Mark didn't speak. Stroked his spine with one hand and kept the other on the small of his back, a soft anchor that held him in, Kian's tears soaking into a fresh t-shirt and every choked breath filled with shampoo and salt.

“I'm sorry I worried you,” Mark murmured finally. Kian nodded. Wanted to say it wasn't just that. That it was everything and nothing at once. “Sit down. It's okay. I can finish this.”

“I have to...” He turned away, began to run the tap again over the sandy clothes. “I have to,” he muttered again, and felt arms wrap around him, a shape behind him, and closed his eyes when he felt a kiss dot at his shoulder.

“Okay,” Mark agreed. Hand over his racing heart, one on his fluttering stomach. He sagged. Felt Mark catch him, if only for a moment before he righted himself.

He opened his eyes and set to work again, trying to match his breaths to Mark's.

 


	13. Chapter 13

_At last he came to the room where Talia was lying, as if enchanted; and when the King saw her, he called to her, thinking that she was asleep.  
\- Sun, Moon & Talia, Giambattista Basile_

  
  


Kian took Mark shopping, as promised, and it was an entertaining enough trip. It was just the supermarket, of course, but there was something comforting about it, walking around and looking at everything, that sense of normalcy that had been severely lacking in his life lately. Or maybe it was just doing something that wasn't work or worrying about other people.

When he got home to pick Mark up he was sat in a black hoodie, beanie, and sunglasses, looking like he was about to start graffitiing something. Kian assured him that he didn't need to go incognito, that a baseball cap would probably be fine, and Mark went back upstairs to change into something slightly less conspicuous.

Nobody noticed them. It had been a couple of months, August about to start and the summer beginning to while into cooler mornings and reddening leaves. Kian doubted anybody remembered the face of the mystery man anymore, the one who'd been so interesting for two weeks or so, back before the next story had come along.

Work dragged for the rest of the week, made harder by the fact that every evening when he got home he could smell cooking food, see the glow of candles. It was novel, eating at the table where before he'd been content to just sit on the sofa in front of the television, but it wasn't unwelcome. They'd talk. Every night. About Kian's day, about the food, laugh over silly things Mark had seen on television or read on the internet. He was using Kian's laptop more than Kian was, as though it was a lifeline to the world. Something that connected all the disparate parts of what he could see and touch and smell right here and breathing greater context into them, all while Mark sat in the house, looking out at the sea.

They stayed up late on the Saturday, enjoying a couple of beers in the garden, Mark grilling dinner on a barbecue Kian had dragged out of the shed for the purpose then had to clean cobwebs out of when he realised it had been two years since it had seen daylight. He hosed it down, scrubbed it out, and within a few hours he had his feet propped up and was spilled back in a fold-out chair, waiting for home-made burger patties that couldn't possibly taste as good as they smelled.

“Tuck in.” Kian took the plate. Grilled potato wedges and a burger piled with salad. Kian took a tentative bite. “Verdict?”

“I think if you weren't a professional chef before, you were wasting your life.” He took another, bigger bite, and moaned while Mark laughed.

“I'm glad you like it.” He put together his own plate and sat down too. “It's been a week since Shane left.” Kian swallowed, and put the burger down.

“It has,” he said carefully. Mark was looking unsure. “I wouldn't worry about him. He's like a cat. He sort of comes and goes when he feels like it, and he generally lands on his feet. He'll come sniffing around again when he wants something.”

“You're not worried?”

“I don't have the energy to worry about Shane,” Kian admitted. “It's never helped anything before.” Mark was tilting his head. “Shane doesn't want help. He wants someone to listen to his stories and tell him he's loved, but the last thing he wants is for someone to notice something's wrong, because then it means he might have to admit it himself. Worry's the opposite of helpful.”

“What if something happens to him?”

“It would have happened if he was here or not.” It was something Kian had made peace with, over long sleepless nights and too many tears. “At least if it happens somewhere else I don't have to feel responsible.”

“It doesn't sound like you like him.”

“I love him. That's the problem.” He picked up his burger again. “Do you like Shane?”

“Yeah. He's funny.”

“Would you call him if you needed help?” Mark's eyes darted away. “Liking him works on the condition that you never actually want him for anything or expect him to be anywhere. That's not to say he isn't kind, or that I don't love him, or that I don't enjoy his company. But I can't worry about him when he's not here, or I'll never do anything else.” He took a bite of his burger, put it down, and began to pick at the wedges.

“What was he like when you were kids?”

“The same.” He smiled. “We were the lost boys.”

“Lost boys?”

“From Peter Pan.” Mark shook his head. “I'll show you the movie. Orphan boys that live in the forest and never grow up, and they fight pirates and have adventures with mermaids and giant crocodiles and all sorts.”

“You grew up, though.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he chuckled. Mark smirked shyly. “But it's a nice night and I've got a beer and this amazing food that someone cooked for me and good company so there's worse places to be.”

“There are.” Mark held his bottle out. Kian clinked it, and in a moment he saw something soft behind blue eyes that felt like it was cradling his heart.

  
  


*

  
  


Shane looked eerie in the light of the torch. Kian settled under the sheet, a pendulous shadow above his head. The torch was on it's end, a green plastic ball sat on the top and turning the light into a green spill that muted and spread into the corners of their little shelter, Kian's sheet draped between the two beds in a makeshift tent.

It wasn't as big as their usual fort, but then it was past midnight and they were both supposed to be in bed, though Kian's bedtime had changed to ten o'clock now that he was thirteen so long as he could still get up for school. Instead they were sat whispering, trying not to alert the rest of the house to the fact that Kian was sat with his knees to his chest, listening to another of Shane's stories.

“Once upon a time there was a princess named Talia,” Shane whispered. “And when she was born, there was a prophecy that she would be killed by a splinter. So her whole life they kept her safe, making sure the prophecy could never come true.

“One day, when nobody was watching her, she came upon a woman using a spinning wheel and asked if she could try it. The woman said yes, because nobody refuses a princess, but when she began to spin a splinter pricked her finger and she fell down dead.”

“She really died?” Kian asked. Shane nodded.

“That's what everyone thought. So her father, who couldn't bear the thought of burying her, put her in one of his castles and sat her in the throne room, then closed up the whole castle and left it abandoned, and vines grew all over it and it sat there for years, until one day a King came along and was curious about the empty castle, the one all shut up and falling apart.

“I know this one! He kisses her and wakes her up.”

“No.” Shane rolled his eyes. “He went into the castle, and there in the throne room was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. Because no matter how long she'd been there, she hadn't started to rot, and she was warm when he touched her. He tried to wake her, but she wouldn't stir, and so he raped Talia, right there in the throne room.”

Kian's eyes widened. It was a word he'd heard, but not one he knew how to describe, except it unsettled him and felt like it should be said in hushed tones.

“What's that mean?”

“He fucked her.” There was venom in the way Shane said it, a cavalier hate that felt like an afterthought. “She couldn't stop him, so he fucked her, and then when he was done he left and locked up the castle again and went back to his kingdom.” Kian pursed his lips, feeling sick. “But what he didn't know was that she got pregnant, and nine months later she had two babies, a boy and a girl, and when the girl sucked on her finger the splinter came out and she woke up.

“So she called the twins Sun and Moon, and lived with them in the house. She cleaned up the blood and tore down the vines and took care of them, though she couldn't remember how she'd gotten pregnant.

“A few years later the King was riding through the forest again when he saw the castle, and he went inside to see if the girl in the throne room was still there. Instead of a sleeping girl he was surprised to find Sun, Moon, and Talia in the castle, and he realised what had happened and told her what he had done. He promised her he would take her to his kingdom and she would never want for anything again, that he loved her, and so she agreed.

“He left her there and went back to his own castle to make arrangements, but what the King hadn't told Talia was that he had gotten married since his first visit. And as the days went on and he began to miss her he began to call their names out in his sleep, and the Queen began to wonder who he was talking about and paid a servant to follow her husband next time he went travelling.

“A few weeks later the king went on a hunting trip alone and the servant followed. After a day's ride he saw the King go into an abandoned castle, and when he peeked through the door he saw him embracing a beautiful woman and her two children, and galloped back to the castle to tell the Queen what he'd seen.”

“He's in trouble now,” laughed Kian. Shane snorted.

“The King went home, this time with Talia and the children on his horse, and put her in a mansion in town, close enough that he could visit her, and said she would want for nothing. He gave her servants and cooks and a nanny to watch the children, and when he got home the Queen greeted him as though nothing had happened, even though she was plotting her revenge.”

“Maybe she and Talia can have the castle,” Kian suggested. “The Queen can be in charge and Talia can help.”

“The Queen called her cook,” Shane continued, “and she sent her to steal Talia's children and cook them into a pie. She said it had to be the best pie she'd ever made, so the king would eat every single bite. So the cook went out and that night she served the king the most beautiful pie, so delicious that he sat there until every bit was gone while his wife sat there watching him enjoy it and laughing when he said how good it was.” He caught Kian's horrified face and grinned ghoulishly. “Then after the King had gone to bed the Queen had her guards drag Talia to the castle.

“The queen had built an enormous fire. She told Talia what had happened to her children, which she'd been looking for all day, and as Talia cried the Queen ordered her guards to tear off her clothes, throw her into the fire and burn her to death.

“But the king heard her crying and was woken up, and he ran downstairs just in time to see Talia naked and being held over the flames. He ordered them to stop and when they let her go he ordered them to arrest the queen, who laughed and told him what she'd done. He was so angry he had the cook and the servant who had spied on him dragged in as well and ordered them all to be thrown into the fire as punishment.

“But the cook screamed out. She hadn't been able to do it, she said, to kill two innocent children, so instead she'd hidden Sun and Moon and made the pie of lamb instead. Then Sun and Moon crawled out from under the cook's skirts and ran to their mother, and so the king pardoned the cook and had the Queen and her servant thrown into the fire, where they burned to death and their bones were fed to the dogs.

“Talia was so grateful that she married the King, and she gave him more children and lived happily in the castle for the rest of her life.”

He grinned. Kian stared. At shadowy features caught in haunted green light.

“That's the end?” Shane nodded. “But that's not right,” Kian protested. “The King was the bad guy.”

“The Queen tried to cook children.”

“Yeah, but...” The whole thing was wrong, and he didn't know how to express why. “But it wasn't _fair_. Why would Talia want to marry him? He raped her.”

“If he hadn't, she would have stayed asleep for ever.”

“That doesn't make it okay!” Kian ran his hands through his hair. Shane was giving him a blank, patient look, and Kian didn't understand. Why it was okay. Maybe Shane's stories weren't always happy, but they usually ended with something that felt like fairness, even if it was brutal. “She didn't ask for it. Couldn't someone have just taken the splinter out?” Shane shrugged. “It's not...”

“Boys! Are you in bed?”

“Yes!” they chorused back through the wall. “Sorry!” Shane clicked off the torch and tugged the sheet down, then tossed it back onto Kian's bed while he climbed back into his own. Kian clambered up slowly, unsettled by the wrongness of that story, the blank, unconcerned look on Shane's face. He pulled the sheets over himself and when he lay down he could see dark eyes peering at him from across the gap.

He closed his own and curled into a ball, disoriented outrage throbbing in his stomach.

  
  


*

  
  


Kian woke to Mark creeping out of bed. He cracked his eyes open, feigning sleep, but all he could see was Mark's back, disappearing through the bedroom door.

He waited. Heard the descent of footsteps, getting fainter, then the click of the front door opening, the soft thunk of it being carefully shut. When he rolled over to look out the window all he could see was the sky, the stars hidden by creaking charcoal clouds swollen with rain.

He crept out. It was still, but he could see lightning in the distance, a network of silver sparking off the sea. It jagged, pulsed, and in the darkness he could see Mark, sat in the water at the edge of the surf.

The sand was cold on his feet. He moved carefully, not wanting to frighten Mark, and by the time he reached the compact wet sand near the edge he knew Mark had sensed him, if only by the lack of surprise when Kian stepped alongside him.

He flinched as the water eddied up around his ankles. Cold. His feet were numb in an instant. Mark didn't react. Just sat, letting it claim him up to his hips, the soak rising up his pyjama bottoms until it crept over his knees, blossoms of darkening fabric.

Kian sat too. Saw Mark glance at him and yelped in surprise when a rush of water lurched up and caught him round the waist, turning his balls to raisins before he could register the cold. When it went out again, leaving his boxers clinging to his goosebumps, he heard Mark laugh.

“This is funny for you, is it?”

“Sort of funny.” Mark glanced at him. “You didn't have to come out.”

“Do you want me to go back inside?”

“No.” A hand took his, steadying him through the next jostle of water. “I thought you were scared of water.”

“It's not my favourite thing,” Kian admitted. Especially not now, the water so black he couldn't see what was in it. “As long as we don't go deeper.” He looked at Mark. “Why do you like it?”

“I don't know if I do. I just...” He reached out to trail his hand through the incoming foam, fingers making furrows. “There's something about it that feels right. Like maybe whatever's missing from me is out there somewhere, and I just have to wait for it to float in. I'm not scared of it. It's got a part of me.” He smiled sadly. “When I can't sleep and all I can think is about all the thoughts I don't have, it helps. To sit here and feel them around me, even if I can't see them.”

Kian nodded, and shifted closer to put an arm around him. Understood more than he could express, sitting in the little house and feeling memories he couldn't quite touch, but which nevertheless felt like home. That every creak in the walls and every nail in the floor was a history in a language he didn't speak.

“Shane said you were a selkie,” he joked carefully. Mark looked up in confusion. “Like a mermaid, sort of, but it's a seal that comes on land and takes off it's skin and walks around like a human.” Mark snorted.

“Makes as much sense as anything else.” Kian got a lopsided smile that made his heart skitter. “Where's my skin?”

“Someone stole it and hid it, and now you can't turn back.”

“Obviously.” Mark rolled his eyes. “He told me the one about the brothers that get turned into swans.”

“Is that the one where the sister isn't allowed to speak for seven years and her babies get murdered?”

“That's the one,” Mark chuckled. “And then she speaks a second too soon and one of the brothers has a swan's wing instead of an arm for the rest of his life.”

“Probably a good talking point at parties,” Kian reasoned. Mark snorted. “If this was one of his fairytales, I would have probably snogged you or married you or something the minute I found you.”

“What's wrong with me? Bit rude.”

“Sorry, I thought an ambulance made more sense.” They both laughed, voices echoing through the empty night until they were broken by a distant roll of thunder. “How long do we stay here?”

“Until I feel better.” Kian nodded and looked out at the flickering horizon, willing to give him some space. “I feel better,” Mark added. “And it looks like it's about to rain. How about I make some hot chocolate and we can watch the storm.” They helped each other up, Kian slipping a little in the wet sand. He shivered when the breeze caught his bare legs. “Thanks, Kian.”

“For what?”

“For...” Mark hesitated. Then he was leaning in.

It felt like electricity, though that may have just been the lightning in the air. Still, it didn't stop Kian shivering when they connected, a hot fizz of blood that spread from his cold lips and down, Mark's taste a darting warmth that caressed his tongue. He moaned, tilted, body a trembling magnet when he felt Mark's hands brand warm and gentle on his arms and the wind blow his hair back from his face, Mark's into their eyes, catching the smell of him.

It broke. Kian realised he was giggling. Mark did too, after a halting, embarrassed moment.

“Um.” Kian touched his lips. “I should come down here more often.”

“Sorry.” Mark bit his lip, but he didn't look sorry, was watching Kian with eyes that were as dark and heavy as the clouds boiling above them. “So, hot chocolate?”

He began to walk, leaving Kian to catch up through the dry sand that stuck to his wet feet.

  
  


 


	14. Chapter 14

“ _If I had sense enough," replied the Beast, "I would make a fine compliment to thank you, but I am so dull that I can only say I am greatly obliged to you.”  
\- Beauty  & the Beast, Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve_

  


“Marshmallows?”

“I think we both know the answer to that,” Kian chuckled, watching while Mark dropped two pink ones into his mug, then sprinkled some cinnamon powder on top. It was obscene. Usually Kian just tipped two teaspoons of instant mix in and a dash of Baileys if he was feeling fancy, but Mark was doing it properly, had spent ten minutes over the stove melting the chocolate and adding the milk and vanilla.

The mug slid in front of him, across the kitchen island. He took a sip, nearly moaned, then straightened his features into a pout.

“What, no whipped cream?”

“I can get some if you...” Mark reached for the fridge, then appeared to realise Kian was joking. “Ha.”

“Ha,” Kian agreed. “It's perfect. Thanks.” He took another sip. It was even the right temperature, warmed him from the inside the same way the shower had warmed him from the outside. Mark had gone first to rinse off the sand, then started on the hot chocolate while Kian had been taking his time, glad for hot water and a fresh towel. “It wouldn't be right,” he blurted out. Mark raised an eyebrow. “Us. It wouldn't be...” He breathed out slowly, trying to slow his apprehensive heart. “I'd be taking advantage.”

“Would you?” A smirk was twisting at the corner of Mark's mouth. “Why?”

“Because you don't know who you are, and I'm taking care of you, and I just...” He realised Mark was trying not to laugh. “It's not funny. Why is this funny?”

“ _I_ kissed _you_.”

“Yeah, but...” Kian scowled at him, though part of him badly wanted to laugh as well. “What if you remember, suddenly, and it turns out you've got someone already? Or... it doesn't look right. Jodi finds out that I've got you here and we're a thing and what is she going to think? That I coerced you? Because...”

“You didn't coerce me.”

“You're confused. You don't know...”

“Kian.” Mark stood up, and Kian's mouth stuttered on his carefully thought out arguments, the ones he'd spent far too much time dwelling on over the last months, rational explanations that had been scattered to the wind about the time he'd tasted a tongue on his. A hand landed on his shoulder and Kian realised Mark had rounded the kitchen island. Was looking at him while Kian looked back with a thousand excuses.

They were silenced by Mark's lips.

He whined a protest that turned into a whimper. Fingers cradling the back of his head, other hand dropping to tilt up his chin and he was drowning, meeting it hungrily back while the thunder played a distant drumline over the sea.

Gulped. Separated. Mark's eyes right there and he was lost, groping for the surface.

“Finish your drink.” Sweet, chocolatey breath tickled his mouth. Kian reached for him. Felt him pull away. “Then we can go get some sleep.”

  


*

  


The stairs felt too long as Kian climbed them. Mark was behind him. Footsteps and breath and heavy presence. He shivered. Pushed open the bedroom door. Rain was striking the window, droplets shattering the lightning into sheets of glasslight, and when a hand settled on his hip he could still see it on the lids of his closed eyes, head tipping back against a shoulder. Wanted to say no, but Mark was guiding him into another kiss and he couldn't, not when he could feel arousal through pyjama bottoms, the heat of someone against him for the first time in too long.

“Say no,” Mark whispered. “Tell me we shouldn't.”

“Mark.” Wanted to come right there, especially when he felt a hand drag up his thigh, catching the satin of his boxer shorts and pulling them tight against his swollen cock. “Tell me you want this. That I didn't...”

“I want it.” Mark breathed into his neck. Hot. Kian moaned. Felt the breath turn into a sucking kiss that slid up to his ear. “Want you. Fuck.” He arched forward, a little uncontrolled, and Kian felt him press. “Kian.”

The springs squeaked as Kian climbed in, Mark on the other side. Sheets up and the two of them facing each other, Mark's lips cherry red. Put a hand on a stubbly cheek and leaned in, careful.

Their tongues met before their lips did, a first taste, and then the distance closed. Gentle. A slow savour that was the opposite to the straining in his boxers. Let his hand settle on a hip and felt a ticklish flinch and a huff of laughter before Mark's hand was doing the same, slipping under Kian's t-shirt and up his ribs, fingers courting every line on the way up.

Back down. Into the small of his back and down to cup over his arse. A cheeky squeeze that made Kian laugh and pull away a little while Mark kissed up his nose and over his eyebrow, delicate butterflies that made him shiver.

“What do you want?” Mark whispered. “Show me what you like.”

“Oh god,” Kian's hands clenched where they'd been exploring Mark's back. Wanted not to be almost coming at Mark's voice, intimate in his ear. “Keep kissing me,” he pleaded. “Don't stop kissing me.”

Mark obliged with a growl. Kian caught it. Hungry and Mark pushing forward and hands everywhere, suddenly, tearing at Mark's shirt, over his head and back together before he could take another breath. His own shirt a second later and Mark's hands on his boxers, both of them kicking Mark out of his pyjama bottoms with clumsy feet, laughing into the kiss until they were naked and Mark was pushing on top, slow and rolling, like lava covering Kian until he was buried, arching up, breath gone and Mark scorching kisses onto his mouth while his thighs wrapped around soft hips and he felt pressure shift until it was right _there_ and Mark was moaning and jerking a rhythm and...

The kiss broke. Buried in his shoulder instead while Kian's eyes rolled back with every thrust, a strobe of lightning and darkness.

“...Mark,” he gasped. “Slow it down.” Mark did, with a whine that suggested he didn't want to. Kian kissed it away. Ran his hands up a chest spattered with hair and felt nipples scrape his palms, the hitched breath in response. Did it again, thumbs teasing. Smirked into the soft moan and rolled them, a little clumsy until he was knelt over Mark and looking down.

Blue eyes softened as they looked back. Flushed cheeks, one a little more red from the sunburn. He cupped the other. Looked down at a soft belly, hard cock. Thighs that tensed under his and a cheeky smile on swollen lips.

“Okay?” Mark murmured self-consciously.

“Perfect.” Kian ran a hand down his sternum. “Okay?”

“Amazing.” Kian jerked reflexively into the grip that settled on his cock, then laughed. Mark grinned back. “I feel like I know this.”

“Do you? Slut.” He bent to kiss the sting out of his words. “You're doing fine,” he coaxed. “Go at your own speed.” Mark nodded. “You're so beautiful.” Started a slow rhythm with his hips. Felt Mark arch back. “Feel so good.”

“Kian.” Dark head tipping back, lips parting. His arm hooked back to grab the pillow and Kian kissed him again, felt Mark's free hand run a clumsy stroke up his cock. “Mnn.” His eyes squeezed shut while Kian's stayed open, watching him. “Ohfuck,” Mark gasped against his mouth. Twitched beneath him. “Kian...”

Their foreheads pressed together, noses squashed while Mark quivered out a soft cry, then a louder one. Sucked a kiss that felt like desperation and Kian reached back to touch him, to guide the rocking between them, and felt Mark pulse. Felt throbbing weight slip between his cheeks and held him there, squeezing down while Mark panted into his mouth and clung at the pillow, hand dropping from Kian's cock to claw at his thigh.

“Kian,” he croaked. Blunt fingernails scraped like ragged fire. “Please.”

Kian kissed him hard while Mark let out an unearthly groan and filled his hand.

He held Mark through it. Through the jerking release, the rasping growl that panted into a breathless cackle that Kian had to meet while Mark twitched in his arms, gave one final shiver, and settled onto the sheets, glistening with sweat.

“Unh,” he managed. Kian laughed.

“Perfect.” He pecked a kiss to Mark's nose. Knew he was still hard, but didn't mind. Could feel cum trickling down the back of his balls and didn't mind that much either.

“I love you,” Mark said, suddenly, and Kian froze. Frightened eyes staring back and him and he swallowed, not sure what to say. “Er.” He was still frozen when a hand caressed his hip nervously, and he sat up slowly, feeling suffocated. “Erm.”

“Love... isn't something I'm good at,” Kian admitted. Mark nodded.

“You don't have to feel the same way.”

“...I do. That's the problem.” Mark tilted his head. “I don't do it easily. I love Shane, and that's...” His eyes drifted to the window, where the sun was coming up, muted by the ongoing storm. “I mean, that's basically fucked.” He laughed helplessly, and scooted back when Mark sat up. There was still cum trickling stickily out of his arsecrack. “I don't want that for you too.” He closed his eyes, swayed into the kiss that pressed tenderly to his cheek. “There are other people out there, you know? People that are less...”

“You're not broken,” Mark interrupted. Kian shook his head. “I don't want other people.” Their hands linked, and Kian looked up into an accepting smile. “You're really bad at being happy, aren't you?”

“Happy's relative.” The hug Mark gave him was so sudden and friendly he had to laugh out loud. “Alright, I'm happy. Jesus.” Teeth nipped at his neck. “I do love you.”

“Good.” A hand groped at his flagging cock, teasing it back to life. Kian moaned. Rested his head on a strong shoulder and let Mark touch him. Clung. Tasted sweat and scraped fingernails down the back of Mark's neck and felt a hand cradle his arse, sliding through tacky cum. Felt a finger flick at him while he buried himself in Mark's embrace, caught on trembling thighs, a core of burning fuses.

Teeth nipped at his jaw when he was close. He cried out, a low prayer.

He came to the panting of Mark's breath, urgent against his ear.

  


*

  


“Somebody got their end away last night,” Bryan teased. Kian paused in the doorway, keys in the lock and other hand clutching his coffee. “Oh come on. You look like you haven't slept, but you're still smiling like a fucking rainbow.”

Kian smirked and pushed the door open, heard a knowing laugh behind him.

“Who was it?”

“Just some lad.” It was the opposite, but Bryan didn't need to know that. Not how they'd showered together afterwards then held each other until the sun was properly up, Mark pecking kisses at his throat and asking if he absolutely _had_ to go to work.

He did, had been the answer. It had been almost impossible to leave, made worse by the shitty weather. The storm was still going and the forecast predicted heavy rain and lightning for the rest of the week, possible hail to come. He'd spent the drive peering through the wipers and wishing he was home in bed.

Instead he was flicking on the store lights and turning off the alarm system.

It was a slow day. The weather didn't help. They kept the radio on in case of warnings, and it at least gave them something to do between occasional customers, singing along to music and laughing with the DJs. The packed it in around two-thirty when the report mentioned roads were flooded in some of the low-lying areas and Bryan said he might go pick up his kids, if that was alright.

Of course it was fine. Kian drove him to the school and gave them a ride to Bryan's house, the girls laughing and shoving in the back and peering out the windows with wide, excited eyes. It was smashing down and they passed a car accident, some poor lad stood in the driving rain while a tow-truck driver hitched his car to a crank.

“You be alright to get home?”

“Should be.” He had to raise his voice through the clamour of rainfall. “The spit's only flooded once, and that was back in the sixties during the hurricane.” Bryan nodded, wished him a safe drive, and hustled his kids out of the car and up to the house, Lilly and Molly squealing as they were soaked.

The spit wasn't flooded, but the water was high, covering the flat shrubland surrounding the road. It was slippery and he moved carefully, headlights picking the way through darkness that felt like early evening instead of three in the afternoon

Mark met him at the door with a towel.

“I'll run you a bath.”

“Thanks.” He was soaked through, shivering while he kicked off his icy clothes and tried to dry his hair. Mark was up the stairs already. When Kian caught up the bathroom was full of hot steam and he exhaled with relief, got a smile that warmed the rest of him.

“Get in.”

“Thanks.” The bath was still filling, but when he sat it rose up over his hips. “It's pelting out there. You okay?”

“Yeah. I shut all the windows.” Kian nodded. “We lost power for a couple of minutes earlier but it came on alright. I couldn't figure out how to reset the clock on the microwave.”

“I'll sort it,” Kian promised. He slid back as the hot water caressed his stomach, then chest. “Bubble bath?”

“You got it,” Mark chuckled, and tipped some in. Soon it was foaming up around Kian's neck and Mark turned the water off. “How was your day?”

“Started well, ended well.” Mark leaned forward for a kiss. Then he reached down to pull the plug. Kian went to ask, surprised by the apparent brevity of the bath, but Mark winked at him and replaced it when the water had dropped, then began to strip out of his clothes.

“You mind?”

“Very much no.” He shifted happily when Mark climbed in and atop him, the water sloshing up to the edge. “You've got plans for tonight?”

“Was thinking we do this. Then I could make some dinner and we could watch some TV.” His mouth caught Kian's. “Been thinking about this,” he muttered while Kian arched. “All day.”

“Mm...” Kian pulled him into another kiss. “Same.” A hand slid through the water, grasping around sensitive flesh that was already getting hard with anticipation. He felt Mark moan against his mouth. “I want you.”

“Oh Jesus,” Mark croaked. “Yes.” He nuzzled into Kian's throat, gasping. “I'm not going to last.”

“Don't worry,” Kian assured him. Felt himself throb at the thought of it, at Mark's reaction. “We've got all night.” Moaned as he was let go then realised Mark was grasping himself instead, a squeeze to slow himself down. Kian pushed him back. Up onto his knees. Pressed forward and took him in, ignoring the taste of soap, water lapping at his chin while he went down on Mark.

Fingers knotted in his hair. He heard a gulping prayer and went deeper, pulled him in, felt Mark's thighs tense under his hands. Bliss when he looked up and saw a parted mouth, sleepy eyes. The plane of stomach and chest and wet nipples that stood in the cool air.

Afterwards Mark pulled him out of the bath. Kian came laid on the bathmat, his shoulders on hard tiles and Mark's mouth a wet sheath that took him in, growls vibrating him to the edge.

“You're quite the cocksucker,” Mark commented while he was chopping vegetables for a pasta. Kian looked up in surprise. “Just saying.”

“You too.” This was a new side of Mark. Brazen in a way that edged at shy. Filthy words and blushing cheeks. The storm was still belting outside and the clock on the microwave said it was just after seven at night. Kian had reset it while Mark had rummaged in the fridge.

“I think I like it,” Mark mused. “Or I did.” The silence was broken by his knife starting on a fresh batch of cauliflower. “Still do. You know what I mean.” Kian nodded, but didn't interrupt him. “I had a weird dream.”

“A memory dream?”

“Maybe. Or maybe not.” Mark tossed the cauliflower into the pot. “There was a buoy on the water and I was sat on it, but I couldn't see the shore.” He was licking his lips nervously when he looked over his shoulder. “Do you think it means something?”

“I couldn't tell you. Have you only had it once?”

“No. Couple of times. But there are seagulls there and they keep swooping at me.” He grabbed a handful of mushrooms. “Maybe that's why I'm scared of birds?”

“Maybe.”

“There are seals as well. I know their names.”

“What are their names?”

“I don't remember.” Mark put down the knife. “That'll simmer for a bit. Do you want some bread while you wait?” Kian shook his head.

“I'm fine.” He reached out a hand. Mark caught it. “I used to get this dream where all my teeth fell out.”

“What does that mean?”

“Dunno. Apparently it's pretty common. Something to do with losing control. Suppose it makes sense. I was all over the place at the time.”

“Really? How so?”

“Just... I was in the system but I was too old to be fostered. It was sort of that point where I knew I was about to be alone. Almost eighteen and I had no idea what I was going to do next except my school marks weren't great and I was stuck in a group home, just waiting for something to happen.”

“That must have sucked.”

“It did. Shane was AWOL again, and there was nothing I could do except hope he'd come back with a solution. But he didn't. A few of us were aging out and we decided to rent a share flat together, and after a bit I got a job and the dreams stopped.”

“What do you dream now?”

“I dream about the sea,” Kian admitted. “Which I suppose makes sense considering I can hear it every night while I'm sleeping.”

“Suppose so.” Mark smiled. “Maybe that's where mine's coming from too.” He turrned away, but his eyes were unsure before they fixed back on the pot. “Do you want a cream sauce or a tomato sauce?”

“Whatever you think.” Kian pushed himself up. Wrapped himself around Mark from behind and kissed a strong shoulder. “Can I help?”

“No, just gotta wait for the pasta...”

“I mean with your dreams,” Kian corrected. Mark shook his head.

“I don't think anyone can help.” His hand settled over Kian's, heart beating against his palm. “But it's nice that you want to.” He stirred the pot with a wooden spoon, other hand still clasped over Kian's.

Kian kissed his shoulder again and let go.

 


	15. Chapter 15

“ _We must go on, because we can't turn back.”  
\- Treasure Island, __Robert Louis Stevenson_

  
  


Mark didn't go out to the water that night. Kian heard him shifting, though, restless, his routine upset by the bad weather. After a while Kian pulled him into a hug and suggested something else, and so they went outside to sit on the bench on the porch, the rain running sheets over the gutters and Mark's feet stuck over the railing.

“It's pretty,” Mark said. Kian nodded and kissed his cheek.

“It is.” Startlingly black, the waves lit every few seconds by streaks of lightning that looked like they were stabbing all the way to the bottom. The wind was a shriek, shaking the thunder from the sky, but still it felt beautiful. It didn't hate, it didn't rage, it just was. Nature tearing itself apart.

They both looked up as the porchlight sputtered out.

“Shit.” Kian peered around. Could see the mainland half a mile away, the odd, staggered blink of squares of light disappearing, like they'd been stamped out of the world. The marina at one end, all the way to the industrial area at the other. “Grid's out.” He stood up, peered through the darkness, but it was impossible to tell if any lines were down when he couldn't see a foot in front of his face.

“Guess you're going to have to reset the microwave clock again.”

“Guess I am.” A hand groped at his and he clung to it. “You know where the candles are?” Mark squeezed his hand in reply. “You get that sorted, I'll find a torch.” He pulled the door open, felt the wind catch it and yank it from his grip. The second try worked better. Then they were inside, laughing when the door slammed shut behind them.

His phone was beside the bed. Kian tripped into things twice trying to reach it, but not long after he had the torch on, was coming downstairs to find candles lit on the kitchen table and Mark digging out more, the smell of used matches a sting on the air.

There was a radio in the bottom drawer. He pulled it out, changed the batteries, and set it on the counter tuned to the local station, though it was patchy at best, more white noise than anything.

Severe storm warning. Stay in your homes and bring pets indoors. Check on elderly neighbours. Have candles prepared in case of blackouts. Do not attempt to drive, especially on flooded roads.

Kian turned it off. Mark's eyes blinked, big and shadowy in the candlelight.

_Kra-KOOM._

They both jumped, then began to laugh. The thunder faded, laughing along.

Then the patter of hailstones.

Kian was just glad he'd put his car undercover. Hoped everyone was safe, out there, in the storm.

He hoped Shane was somewhere warm.

  
  


_*_

  
  


The day dawned as the previous one had ended. They hadn't slept well, either of them, but whether that was due to the noise or Mark's touch was debatable. It had felt like being in a dream. Snogging slowly, drifting to sleep, waking again to Mark spooning around him and Kian pressing back, drowsy kisses on his nape and both of them moving slowly, an endless grope that didn't need release.

Kian finally came just before dawn. Mark's hand on him and twisting suddenly, and he breathed it out into the pillow. Breathed in hours of mingled sweat while Mark soothed kisses down his shoulder, ribs, hip, thigh. Back up to twist Kian into a breathless snog.

“Love you,” Mark murmured. Kian gulped it back. Rolled over. Knew it was past dawn, from the greying tint to the storm, but that there was no way that he was going in today. Not when the lights were still off and he could hear thunder rippling overhead.

When they were done he texted the staff to let them know they were closed and to keep safe, tossed his phone back on the side table, and flopped back into the pillows.

“Knackered,” he mumbled. Mark hummed agreement and snuggled into his side.

They both slept, the rage of the sea a lullaby.

  
  


*

  
  


The power was still off when they woke around eleven. Kian found Mark sat on the porch again, and the storm had eased somewhat. Still raining, but not the relentless pelt it had been all night. The clouds were still black. Kian sat down beside him and switched the radio on.

It wasn't great news. Widespread damage from hailstones, fallen trees, flooding on the mainland where the river had burst and spread into homes and businesses. Kian doubted the store would be affected badly, they were far enough inland after all, but regardless there was no point going to check. He could see from here that the road into town was going to be impassable for at least the next few days until the water receded, though there was probably enough safe passage to walk the trip if he felt like getting soaked for no good reason.

There was debris all down the beach. Leaves and sticks and half a rosebush Kian knew was from his own back garden. He'd glanced out before and it was carnage, everything flattened or ripped out, shingles missing from the roof of the shed. Nothing damaged in the main house, thank god, though the report said there had been a roof or two ripped away and windows broken all through town, that clean-up efforts were stalled while they waited for the storm to pass, and to collect sandbags and bottled water as needed from community buildings through town.

They couldn't cook. Kian poured them a couple of bowls of cereal before the milk could go off in the fridge and they ate them in the dim kitchen, the curtains drawn back for a bit of light.

It was a friendly sort of day. There was a calm about having Mark around. Something in his presence that was strong and safe but didn't insist upon itself. It wasn't like being by himself, but not like being with Shane either, where it always felt like something was happening. Mark just was. There for touch and conversation, seemed to complement Kian's own rhythm of needing to be, sometimes, to just find breath in the lulls between thought.

They were settled on the bed, Kian with a book and Mark dozing against his chest when Kian felt a drop of water land on his check.

He wiped it away, confused, and looked up. Swore when he saw the telltale darkening of the ceiling, a second drop fall. It landed on Mark's hair.

“Whassat?” Mark muttered. Kian groaned and put down the book, pushed him off.

“Get a bucket,” Kian sighed. “I'll check the attic.”

“There's an attic?” Mark looked surprised. “Where?”

Above the upstairs hallway was the answer. Kian got out the stepladder and pushed the trapdoor open, once the bed was pushed aside and a bucket put under the drip. Then he clambered up into the ceiling, coughing when the dust flurried into his lungs.

“Can I look?”

“If you don't mind getting dirty.” He crawled along the floor until there was enough room to stand, stooping to avoid his hair touching the exposed beams. He could see the problem already, an uneven square of sunlight at the end where a few shingles had been ripped free above the patchjob he'd worked together when Shane had fallen off the roof. He heard scuffling behind him and glanced around when he saw Mark pull himself clumsily over the lip of the ceiling.

“Oh, cool.” He looked around absently. “What's in those boxes?”

“Old clothes and tax receipts, mostly.” Kian crept a little closer to the puddle that had pooled under the hole, going careful in case the boards were rotten. “Shit I might need but don't mind forgetting about.” Mark nodded sagely. “I'll board this over until I can get someone in to repair it.” It wasn't too bad. Just needed another plank above the first to hold out the elements. “Watch your step. The floor's old.”

“I found a spider.”

“Just one? You're not looking hard enough.” He turned to find Mark inspecting a large web. “Cool. Let's get out of here and I'll grab some tools from the shed.” Mark shrugged and turned away, then stopped, peering into the darkness.

“What's that?”

“What... oh.” Kian could just make it out, the chest hidden in the corner of the eaves. “It's just full of old clothes.” Mark was creeping closer, looking curious. “Explore if you want, I'm getting out of here.”

“I know this,” Mark said softly, though it felt loud in the empty space. His fingers lifted the brass clasp, the one shaped like a seashell. “I...” He sat down cross-legged on the filthy floor. “What is it?”

“I don't know. It was here when I got here.” Kian felt his heart begin to stutter faster. Mark was leaning closer, inspecting the clasp with an odd reverence. “You recognise it?” Mark nodded. When Kian sank down alongside him he looked troubled, though he let go of the clasp and opened the chest carefully, peering inside.

“What's this?” He picked the wooden boat up. It was well made, what looked like a fishing boat about the length of Kian's forearm. Small cabin, painted white, the rest a faded blue. A mast sat in the middle, tiny rungs of a ladder carved along it, and a crossbeam that stood from the rear of the boat on two spindly pillars.

“You can have it if you want.”

“I...” Mark was turning it over and over, looked almost entranced. “The net goes here.” He tapped two notches on the crossbeam. “It's a trawler.” Kian shrugged. Mark's thumb settled on the prow, where there was a seashell painted, the same as the one on the chest. “Why do I...” He looked back into the chest. Began to pull clothes from it, almost possessed. Kian took the boat to keep it out of the way. “There's something.”

“What?”

“I don't...” And then the chest was empty, clothes strewn around him. A hard wooden bottom that stared back at them. “Fuck, what _is_ it?” He picked up a dress that had caught on his knee. “No.”

“Mark.” Kian put a hand on his shoulder. “You're confused. We'll figure it out. Just...”

“I know this!” Mark snapped back. Kian pulled his hand away. “It has to be...” He threw the dress down. “Fuck.” Trembling legs were pulled up to a heaving chest, and Kian realised there were tears in his eyes. “I don't know.” He was shaking when Kian wrapped slowly around him, the boat still held in one hand.

“It's okay,” Kian murmured. “We'll figure it out.”

  
  


*

  
  


The rest of the day was spent in a sombre silence. Mark barely put down the boat, spent the afternoon turning it over in his hands, looking at it from every possible angle. Kian didn't interrupt him, went back up instead to patch the hole and mop up the puddle. If it really had sparked a memory it was easier just to let him be and hope Mark was able to tease out the rest of it.

The lights came back on just after nine that night. Kian blew out the candles, reset the microwave clock, then spent some time going through the fridge to figure out what could be saved. It had held the cold well, and most of it was salvagable, though he did have to throw away the milk and half an avocado that was going brown.

The television said the weather would pass tomorrow, that the usual idiots who'd tried to drive through floodwaters or go fishing in the storm had been rescued, and that clean-up was underway. There was a shot of the main road. It wasn't very heartening, leaves all over the place and broken windows, a tree downed into someone's roof, but nobody seemed to be seriously hurt except for a man who'd been stupid enough to try to move fallen power lines off his front lawn and was intensive care.

Kian let everyone know that work wasn't compulsory the next day, but that he'd be going in early to see what the damage was if anyone wanted to join him. Bryan said he'd check it out, and Mark asked if he could tag along too. Kian didn't see why not. They wouldn't be open regardless.

The boat was set carefully on the chest beside the bed when they climbed in. Kian spooned around him. Knew even with his eyes shut that Mark was looking at the boat. When he woke again the rain had stopped and Mark was gone, the boat with him.

They came back a couple of hours later. Kian pulled him in. Stroked damp, salty hair and kissed his forehead. Felt Mark shiver. The stars were starting to come out, pinpricks in the darkness, and when the moon caught Mark's face there was something there that hadn't been, the shadows shifting and making him look not like Mark after all, like someone else wearing Mark's skin.

Kian closed his eyes and focused on the familiar heartbeat against his.

  
  


*

  
  


The drive into town was done carefully. Wet roads, branches scattered everywhere. The spit wasn't too bad with the waters having receded during the night, but town hadn't fared as well. Sandbags at every door and the constant smell of wet rubbish and mud, cramming drains and creating slick mess across the tarmac.

The store seemed mostly intact. A bit of water on the floor and they spent twenty minutes making sure all the power cables were out of the wet before they turned on the lights. By the time Bryan arrived they were pulling stock off the lower racks, tossing anything damaged into a cardboard box to be written out of the inventory, and putting everything onto tables to keep it out of the damp. Kian suspected the carpet would have to be pulled up, judging from the smell, and sent a text to the owner to let him know what was going on.

He got a message back commending him for his great work. Obviously the guy wasn't going to drag himself out here himself, but Kian didn't mind. It was easier to work without having someone over his shoulder.

“You have much damage?”

“Nah.” Bryan shook his head. They'd been mostly quiet, had just gotten stuck in, but Kian hadn't missed the curious glances Bryan had been casting Mark's way. “Couple windows in the back got broken. Got the glazier coming in Friday. Otherwise it was just the power and it gave the girls a bit of a fright.”

“They were okay?”

“Yeah. We made an evening out of it. Had a picnic in the living room. Put on little plays and told ghost stories, that sort of thing.” Mark snorted a laugh where he was leaned over the mop. “You?”

“Couple of shingles out of the roof, but not too bad. The garden's a warzone.”

“Surprised you didn't get more, out on the water like that.”

“Me too, honestly.”

“Your roof's got a four-sided slant instead of being gabled,” Mark said quietly. Kian looked up in surprise. “And you've got venting built-into the stone to equalise air pressure, There's a buried sea-wall just off the shore too, which staggers the breaks so they don't hit as hard.”

“How do you know that?”

“You can see the spot where the current runs parallel,” Mark explained. “I'd say there's probably reef build-up there too. That's why the seals like it. It's protected, there's fish and not much shark activity in the area except for basking sharks, and they're not aggressive and too big to come in that close. Plus most of the tuna fishing gets done out in the deeper areas so there's less chance of getting tangled in nets, and the dolphins stay up the point so there's less competition.” He looked away, blushing. “Um.” Bryan was staring at him. Kian didn't know what to say. “Should I throw this out?”

“Yeah, you can just...” Kian gestured at the box. Mark tossed the packet of noseplugs in. “I've got sharks, do I?”

“In your area? Definitely baskers.” Mark didn't look like he knew where the words were coming from either. “Threshers probably. I mean, you're not too far from deep trench waters, so there's probably lots of starfish and sea-cucumbers. Turtles. There'll be humpbacks and minkes a bit further south, but good luck spotting them close to shore.”

The colour drained from his face. He blinked, and then sat suddenly, like his legs had utterly given out. Kian rushed to his side.

“Mark?” He tipped. Eyes rolled back for a second. “Mark.” Soft moan. Bryan was already reaching for his phone.

“What's wrong with him?”

“He's fainted I think. Mark.” Blue eyes fluttered open. “Talk to me, yeah?”

“Kian?” It sounded dazed. “I'm on the floor.” Bryan had paused, finger hovered over the keypad.

“You fainted.” It came out slightly hysterical. But Mark was already sitting up. “Hey, okay, don't go too fast.”

“Do I call someone?”

“Get him a glass of water,” Kian instructed. Bryan charged off into the staffroom. “You alright? You need some air?” Mark shook his head. He looked pale still.

“I'm alright. I just got light-headed.” He accepted the glass Bryan handed him and took a careful sip. “Maybe it's the smell. Or the milk was off. I'm really tired.” It was too many excuses at once. “Sorry to scare you.”

“It's okay.” Kian hugged him gently. “I'll get you a chair and you can sit down while we finish up. Shouldn't be much longer.”

He pulled a chair out of the staffroom. Mark got in it on his own, looked fine again, and Kian tried to quell his worry. They didn't need a production over this. He'd just fainted. Kian had done it once or twice himself when he'd been exhausted and or dehydrated, still had a scar on his cheek from when he'd been running a school cross-country in the sweltering heat and gone sprawling on rocky ground.

They packed up an hour later. There wasn't much more they could do. Kian suspected they'd be closed for the next day at least, until everything dried out and it was safe to go back in. Bryan caught him at the door while Mark climbed into the car.

“He's weird.”

“He's fine.” Both felt true. “It's been a hectic couple of days.” The nod he got in return didn't appear convinced. “I'll call you when I know what's going on, yeah? Say hi to the girls.” He set the alarm and closed the door. Mark was waiting behind the passenger seat.

“I like your shop.”

“Thank you,” Kian chuckled. “It's better when it's dry.” He put a hand on Mark's knee. “You're sure you're feeling better? We can swing by the hospital.”

“I'm okay. Honestly. It just... it felt like a headache, almost, but really sudden. Like my brain was filling up all at once. It's gone now.” He pressed his hand gingerly to his forehead. “I said something, didn't I? I remember you talking about the storm.”

“You said something about sharks and then pitched it,” Kian confirmed. “It was all a bit...” Detailed. Thoroughly confident and detailed for someone who'd had to be told what Peter Pan was. “It didn't make much sense.”

“Oh.” Mark turned to look out the window. “Cool.” Kian leaned over to kiss his shoulder. “I'm hungry.”

“We'll make something when we get back home,” Kian chuckled. Mark grinned.

It was slow going. There were two workmen chainsawing a fallen tree on Kian's normal route and he had to take a detour. Traffic was gridlocked. It was almost an hour later that he turned out onto the spit and headed for the house, eyes casting at ripped-up shrubs and sand darkened with moisture and driftwood. The ridge where they'd found Mark had collapsed completely, save for a few stones lining the border.

“Jesus,” Mark murmured. Kian nodded and turned up the hill to the drive.

There was a police car there, parked in his spot.

Kian pulled the handbrake and climbed out.

 


	16. Chapter 16

_So he pretended to fall asleep and called out in his sleep: "I have killed a dozen at a blow; I have slain two giants; I have caught a wild boar by his bristles, and captured a unicorn alive. Show me the man that I need fear."  
\- A Dozen At One Blow, Joseph Jacobs_

  
  


The door was unlocked. Kian was fumbling with the keys before he realised. Lights on, the curtains drawn back, and Mark put his hand on the knob and pushed. Then it was open and Kian was blinking into his own front hallway as though he'd never seen it before, a tunnel that led to somewhere he wasn't sure if he recognised.

Nicky was sat in the armchair. Kian felt a swell of vomit and covered his mouth.

“Is Shane...”

“He's in the shower,” Nicky said. Kian almost fainted himself. Mark's hand looped around his waist to steady him, and if Nicky noticed he didn't comment. “You want to take a seat?” Kian did. Collapsed onto the sofa. Mark squeezed his shoulder and asked if he should put on tea.

He disappeared into the kitchen. Nicky was in uniform, and Kian could hear it. The patter of water on tiles somewhere above his head.

“What happened?”

“He was sleeping in the newspaper office parking garage,” Nicky said. “Apparently he'd been in there before the storm, was harassing the reception girl about speaking to someone about mermaids or something.” Kian closed his eyes, buried his face in his hands. Wanted to be angry, but was more embarrassed than anything. “They walked him off the premises but he kept trying to come back, and then this morning they found him in the editor's parking spot.”

“Jesus,” Kian groaned. Nicky was studying him when he looked up. “I'm really sorry. He's usually okay. We had an argument and he stropped out. I didn't think...” He looked towards the bathroom. “I'll talk to him.”

“What's he on?” Kian felt his cheeks flood with guilty heat. “Kian.”

“I don't know.” His voice sounded frightened. “Painkillers, I think. Mostly. He used to be on stuff when we were younger, for depression and mood swings, but I don't know if he still...” Mark came out of the kitchen holding two mugs of tea. “Thanks.” He bit his lip. “I need to talk to the detective.” Mark nodded and headed upstairs. Kian stood up. “Come outside?”

They took the mugs out to the porch seat. Kian wasn't sure if anyone could hear them out here, but it was easier in the breeze.

“This isn't good.”

“It's not, no.” Kian put his mug down on the planks at his feet. Nicky was still nursing his. “He thinks...” He hesitated. “Shane likes fairytales.”

“Okay. Like Snow White and stuff?”

“No. I mean, yes. He...” Kian tried to figure out how to explain. “He has trouble with what's real and what's in his head, and he knows all these old fairytales, and sometimes... I think it's easier for him to pretend they're real than to face what's actually going on.”

“What's going on?”

“He's an addict.” It was the first time the word had come out of Kian's mouth. Tears sprang to his eyes. “He's been hurt and he numbs it and runs away from things. He doesn't want help.”

“Did you know that when you took Mark on?”

“He seemed okay at the time, I didn't think...” The stare was accusing. “I can't save him,” he breathed. “I can't save Shane.” A hand settled on his shoulder. When he looked up the gaze had softened. “I just wanted...”

“If Shane's a danger to Mark...”

“He's not,” Kian said quickly. “He wouldn't hurt anyone. He just gets confused.”

“Would he talk to someone? A doctor?” Kian shrugged. “Does he ever hurt himself?” Hanging his head was enough of a reply. “Kian, if he's hurting himself I can speak to a doctor, maybe try to get him sectioned if it's getting that bad.” Kian sniffed back angry tears. “This isn't just about him. It's about your safety too.”

“I'm fine.”

“You're not. You look exhausted.” Kian shook his head. “I have to tell Jodi about this. She's Mark's case worker. If she decides...”

“He wants to stay.”

“He's not of sound mind. I know he's doing well, but by definition I have to treat him as impaired. You're his guardian. Part of that is providing a safe and stable environment. You spent time in the system, you should know that.” Kian's mouth opened in surprise. “We ran a background check when you made the offer. You came up clean. If anything we were impressed. Not many kids have an upbringing like yours and do as well as you've done. Jodi thought you might be able to help him. Someone who understands what it's like.”

“Did you do one on Shane?”

“One misdemeanour, no convictions. His juvenile records were sealed, but we didn't see cause for concern, especially as you said he was just visiting. I'm concerned.”

“You want me to have Shane put away?”

“I want you to stop trying to make excuses and think about what's best for him.” Kian nodded. “When I picked him up he tried to make me arrest the editor for not believing him, then the whole way home he was babbling some nonsense about the time he'd saved a baby from a runaway ferris wheel.” Kian snorted.

“He found a ragdoll at the carnival when we were twelve and gave it to lost and found,” Kian sighed. Nicky looked like he was trying not to laugh, despite his stern face. “I'll put him on the downstairs fold out, put Mark in with me so I can keep an eye on him.”

“I thought you were clearing out the spare?”

“It's been a weird couple of weeks.” Nicky didn't look convinced. “Send Jodi around. She can talk to Shane. Bring a doctor if you want. Whatever you think's right, I'll do it. Even if it means...” He breathed out slowly. “He hasn't hurt anyone. He's just in his own head.”

“Okay.” Nicky put down his mug. “How's Mark doing?”

“Doing well.” Kian tried not to blush. With everything else going on he was definitely not mentioning their changing relationship. “He's discovered a talent for cooking. I took him to the supermarket and he's been using my laptop to find recipes.”

“That's good.”

“I think some of his memories are coming back too. Not like... big stuff, but he's said some things seem familiar. And he knows things about fish.”

“Fish?”

“Yeah. Started talking about currents and sharks and all sorts of stuff. I don't think he even knew what he was saying.” They heard a clatter inside. “Shane's out of the shower. He's trying to make toast.”

“How do you know?”

Kian stood up. “He'll have tried to carry everything at once and dropped the peanut butter.” He sighed and bent to pick up his mug “Come in if you want burnt toast.”

  
  


*

  
  


Kian didn't know what he expected when he pushed back into the house. That Shane would be different, somehow. Broken. Upset. Instead it was just Shane, dressed in clean shorts and one of Kian's band shirts, spreading peanut butter over toast.

He turned around. Smiled. Kian reached out and caught him when Shane walked into a hug, as solid as ever.

“Hey. Sorry if I worried you.”

“It's alright,” Kian murmured. Shane kissed his cheek. “Making toast?”

“Want some?” Kian nodded. “How about the weather the last few nights, huh? That was wild. Good thing Nicky found me, I must've gotten lost in the storm.” He shook his head self-deprecatingly, with a good humour that was almost unreal. “Thanks, detective.”

“You're welcome, Shane.” Nicky sat warily down at the kitchen table. “You were out in the elements for a bit. You sure you wouldn't like to get checked out by a doctor?”

“Right as rain. So to speak.” He chuckled. “I remember once Kian and I went camping and the rain was so bad the tent collapsed. We got soaked. Kian got flu but I was fine. Made of tough stuff.” He rapped on his chest to prove it. Nicky was looking at Kian to clarify the story.

“I remember. I was in hospital with pneumonia.” Shane had sat by his bedside the whole time, refusing to leave even when visiting hours were over.

“He almost died,” Shane said triumphantly. “Hey, did you know Mark can talk to seals?” He glanced towards the stairs, where Mark was coming down carefully, not sure if he was allowed yet. “That's right, isn't it? You can talk to seals?”

“Er... I dunno. They like me alright,” Mark hedged.

“There were some in the garden a few weeks ago,” Kian explained to a confused Nicky. “They let Mark pat them.”

“Really?” Nicky didn't look like he quite believed it, like Shane's lies were spreading.

“Five of them,” Shane added. “I didn't think they liked people, but there they were just hanging out in the yard. It was like magic.” The toasted popped. Shane turned back and grabbed the jar of peanut butter again. “He can cook too.”

“Kian was saying.” Mark was blushing. “Well, how about I bring Jodi over tomorrow night and we can see this amazing cooking in action. If that's alright with you, Mark?”

“I... yeah. There's a lamb and asparagus thing I've been wanting to try. If that's...” Something excited was in his eyes, and Kian realised he was proud. It was gorgeous. “I can do dessert too.”

“I'm hungry already. Thanks.” A plate with two pieces of burnt toast landed in front of him, peanut butter scraped haphazardly on most of it. “Cheers Shane.” Shane did a cheeky salute. Nicky returned it, laughing, then took a tentative bite of his toast. “I'm hearing you might have remembered something, Mark. Kian was saying you know about fish.” Mark hitched a shoulder. “You want to talk about it?”

“I um... there's a boat.” Blue eyes darted nervously towards Kian. “It was in a box. It's probably nothing, but...”

“Can I see?” Mark nodded and went upstairs to retrieve it.

“What boat?”

“Found it in the attic,” Kian said. “While I was fixing the new hole in the roof.”

“Oh.” Shane didn't ask about the hole. It didn't matter anyway, because a moment later Mark was coming back down, the boat clutched between careful hands. He set it on the table in front of Nicky, who pulled it closer, peering at it.

“The net goes there.” Mark pointed to the two notches. Nicky nodded and turned it over. “I know the seashell. I don't know how I do, but...” He took it carefully back when Nicky put it back down, clutching it to his chest.

“Do you mind if I take it back to the station? I can see if anyone recognises it.”

“I'd rather keep it.” Something possessive darted through Mark's eyes. Worried. “Can you just take a picture?” Nicky nodded and pulled a small camera off his belt, snapped a few photos, then put it away. “Do you think it means anything?”

“I'll look into it.” Nicky stood. “Thanks for the toast, Shane, couldn't eat another bite.” He'd only taken two, but Shane beamed anyway. “I'd better get back to it, but I'll see you around six tomorrow evening.” Kian walked him out, stepped outside when Nicky motioned him and shut the door behind them. “Watch him,” he said in a low voice. Kian nodded gratefully. “We'll see how he is tomorrow night and take it from there. I'm trusting you.”

“I appreciate it.” He put out a hand. Nicky hesitated, then shook it. “If something happens I'll call you. Straight away.”

“You will.” Nicky gave him a warning look.

They said goodbye, and Kian stepped back into the house, bracing himself.

  
  


*

  
  


The evening went surprisingly well. Shane went upstairs to take a nap and Mark made them all dinner while Kian went to check on the patchjob. Everything seemed to be holding so he rang a roofing place but they were booked up because of the widespread storm damage and couldn't come for a few weeks.

He made the appointment, woke Shane up for dinner, and they sat rather civilly around the kitchen table, talking as though Shane hadn't been missing.

It felt like a jarring reset. Kian had a word to Mark and suggested they keep what was happening a secret while things settled. Mark had seemed to understand, though he'd looked put out.

Kian hated to think it, but maybe it was better that Shane go. For his own good as much as anyone else's.

“I'm going to bed,” Shane announced. It was early, for him, but Kian supposed he'd had a rough couple of days. He began to trot towards the stairs, and Mark looked at Kian, panicked.

“Er...” Kian started. Shane looked back expectantly. “I was going to suggest you sleep down here.” A disbelieving eyebrow rose. “Just... Mark's been sleeping up there for the last couple of weeks and it wouldn't be fair to...”

“Mark doesn't sleep anyway. He spends half the night at the beach,” Shane protested. “Then I have to wake up because he's sneaking past?”

“The ceiling's leaking,” Kian said helplessly.

“So?”

“I'll... sleep down here,” Mark interrupted quietly. Kian felt his heart sink. “It's okay. I don't mind.” He smiled at Shane. “I've had a good run, and you'd probably like a night in a proper bed.”

“You don't have to do me any favours.”

“Shane, fucking sleep wherever you want,” Kian snapped. Shane baulked.

“What's up your arse?”

“You. Disappearing for two weeks and then thinking you have any right to...” He exhaled slowly while Shane stood there, pouting. “Where do you want to sleep?”

“I'll sleep down here if it's such a big drama.”

“Good. Decision made.” Kian stood up. “Mark and I are going to bed. Do you want help pulling out the bed or can you do it on your own?”

“I got it.” There were tears in Shane's eyes. “I wasn't trying to be selfish. I just don't see why...” Kian gestured Mark up the stairs. “You're always angry with me lately. I don't understand.” He sniffed. “I thought if I gave you space maybe...” He turned away. “Sorry.”

“Come here,” Kian sighed. Shane slouched over. The hug was sullen, but it fit the way it always had, the two of them in perfect complement to the shape of the other.

“Love you,” Shane murmured. “I'll make it up to you. Whatever I did wrong.”

“It's okay,” Kian whispered back. “We can look at it in the morning.”

  
  


*

  
  


The sand scraped his belly as he hauled himself up the beach, leaving his second skin behind. Ungainly legs, a rocky path, and then grass and light and the smell of people. Dust and food and soap and things hidden in cracks beneath floorboards.

He's asleep, she said.

He looked at her. Memories of her. Dark hair to her shoulders and an apron knotted around her waist over shorts that were both comfortable and rebellious. The constant sense of mess, paint wiped off skin and tears off cheeks and tidying away toys that had been left strewn when they'd stopped being important to the story her son was playing out on the floor.

He hadn't been the first. Four before him. They were gone now. Back to the sea they'd come from and he heard her crying in the night sometimes. Wished he could help but nature wasn't like that. It gave and took without reason, dark as the deepest trench and light as the foam pushing the shore.

He knew all that while he stood there. His children. Something incompatible between what he was and what she knew.

He climbed the stairs. Lagoon-blue eyes that blinked in the dark. He lifted the boy, heavy and perfect in his arms.

You can't take him too, she said. He shook his head and kissed a pink cheek with a mouth that felt clumsy, lips that were thick and wore whiskers shorter and darker.

I will take him, he croaked back. You can't be trusted. Not when you kill all the others.

Give me a week, she pleaded. A week and then I'll bring him to you.

He nodded. Didn't ask about the time, what preparations she'd make, whether the days would be spent cursing his name or crooning her son's.

She lifted the boy from his arms. He stared. Wide, watchful eyes that seemed to see only her.

The seal-skin cloak fluttered around his knees as he descended the stairs.

  
  


 


	17. Chapter 17

_I am sorry for him; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself always.  
\- A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens_

  
  


Kian couldn't say what was wrong, exactly, when Mark asked. Early morning and a hand on him while coaxing kisses nipped up his throat. The perfect way to wake up. A nose nuzzled gently into his ear while he lay there, staring drowsily at the ceiling.

“Not in the mood?”

“Sorry,” Kian sighed. Mark shrugged and pulled away. The hand released his cock and settled on his chest instead, fingers splaying out. Could feel a gaze on his cheek, where Mark was studying him in the early morning light.

“Is it Shane?” Kian looked at him in surprise. “You've been weird since he got back.”

“It's not...” He couldn't finish the sentence, not when Mark was giving him that look. “I don't know. It's been a stressful couple of days.” A soft hum of agreement pursed out of full lips. “I keep feeling like he can hear us.”

“So?”

“I don't want to tell him yet.” Mark raised an eyebrow. “Maybe we shouldn't...” He sighed. “Nicky said something yesterday, about how I'm technically your guardian. I guess I just...”

“I'm not a child, Kian.”

“All the same.” Mark was sitting up. “I don't mean...”

“I get it. Shane's back and you don't need to fill up your time any more. Thanks for the pity fuck.” He swung his legs of the side of the bed. “I hope it was good for you.”

“Mark, I don't mean...” He couldn't fucking please anybody at the moment, apparently. “Of course you aren't. I never...” He grabbed Mark's shoulder before he could stand. “Please, just...”

“Why are you whispering?” Mark said accusingly. Kian bit his lip. “You're an adult. What's going to happen? Your friend finds out you've got a...” He swallowed, the unsaid word stuttering between them.

“Boyfriend,” Kian finished. Mark glared at him suspiciously. “It's delicate, okay? I'm doing my best.” He let go of Mark's shoulder. “I just want to make sure he's stable before I go upending things. Let him settle in first.” He could hear Shane downstairs, shuffling around, and wondered what he was doing up so early. “It's new. You know Shane likes to talk. What if he tells Jodi we're together?”

“What if he does?” Mark turned around, bringing his legs up on the bed. “They can't force me to leave.”

“They can, love.” Kian touched his cheek. Not of sound mind. That was what Nicky had said. “You've been released here under my care. They can get a court order if they feel like the situation's not healthy.” Mark nuzzled his fingers sulkily. “I don't want you taken away from me, put in some facility. I don't want that.” A breath huffed into his palm. “Please give me time.”

There was a long silence while Mark looked at him. Kian stared back. Tried to hold his gaze, needing Mark to see how serious he was. Eventually blue eyes darted away.

“Okay,” Mark mumbled. Kian leaned in to hug him gratefully.

“I love you,” he whispered. Mark shrugged in his grip. “I'll send Shane out to the market later. Then we can...” He reached down. Felt a flinch and heard a moan.

“I'm going to need a shower now.”

“Good,” Kian purred, and kissed him. Mark shoved him away playfully. “You go. I'll get the kettle on.”

  
  


*

  
  


Kian stopped halfway down the stairs, staring.

It took him a moment, first, to register what he was seeing. Looked like someone in the middle of an elaborate paint-job, sheets draped over everything and the living room floor completely disappeared. The sofa was pushed forward, he realised, anchoring the tent, and everywhere there were chairs and end tables dragged from all corners of the bottom floor, sheets pitched and stretched to fill the entire living room.

He was still staring when Shane crawled out from under what looked like the side-table from the front hall, judging from the shape on top that matched the bowl where Kian normally left his keys.

“Welcome to Castle Greyskull!”

“Er...” Kian descended another two steps. “Wow.” Shane looked utterly proud of himself. Kian hoped he hadn't scratched the floorboards dragging things around. “What's all this?”

“Thought it'd be fun.” Shane beamed. “Come on in. I'll show you around.”

It was definitely less comfortable than when he'd been ten. Kian dropped to his knees, crawled forward, and felt everything creak and twinge. Ducked his head low, back still stiff from sleep, and then was in, peering through the shadowy depths of his entire linen cupboard.

He found Shane in the middle, between an ottoman and a hatstand Kian hadn't seen in at least three years since he'd shoved it in the spare room. There was a torch on the floor, balanced on it's handle, and on top a piece of red cellophane, giving the space an artificial campfire glow.

“It's like when we were kids!”

“Yeah,” Kian laughed carefully. He sat cross-legged on the other side of the torch.

“Just us two. Password is Bangarang.” Kian snorted. “Like from Hook. We used to watch that all the time, remember?”

“I do.” He glanced around them. “It's a bit smaller than when we were kids.”

“You were my happy thought.” Kian nodded. Wanted to say it back, but it wasn't as simple as that. Not any more. Happy thoughts were for children, for people who thought happiness was a magic cure, that it was pure and permanent, not just a brief respite in the boredom of everyday life. One end of a seesaw weighted at the other end by misery, balanced on a fulcrum of mediocrity.

It wasn't fairy dust. It was Mark smiling at him, and for a moment pretending that everything else didn't matter, until the truth came rushing back in.

It was not feeling lonely. Not feeling responsible. Not feeling, for a moment, like he was half a life built on memories he could never quite grasp.

“I love you,” Shane said. Kian took the hand that was held out, felt in squeeze into his.

“I love you too.” Shane shifted closer. He heard footsteps on the stairs.

Lips pressed to his.

He froze. Heard the footsteps stall, a soft gasp, and realised the light from the torch was casting shadows. Couldn't reflect the tongue pushing into his mouth or the taste of Shane, but could reflect the hand that had settled on his cheek, painting it bright and red across the white sheet sheltering them.

Feet were an ascending drumbeat. Kian pushed away, stunned, and saw Shane looking at him, doe-eyed.

“Kian.” He bent in again. Kian pulled back. “What's wrong?”

“What are you doing?”

“What? Don't be weird.” Shane looked confused. A hand ran down his arm. “You said you loved me.” The hand dropped further. “You can have me. Whatever you want.” Kian batted it away when it reached for his groin. “Kian.”

“Shane, you can't just...” He scooted backwards. Shane was beginning to look hurt and he couldn't deal with that right now. “If I gave you any indication...”

“I had some time to think, you know? About how things had been weird between us.” Shane crawled after him. “We've known each other for so long and then we were sleeping together and you didn't want to start anything with Mark here. I get that. But I don't want to wait any more.” Kian pushed away, began to yank down the sheets and clamber out. “It can just be you and me again. Like it used to be.” He gestured at the sheets. “I thought it'd be romantic.”

“What the fuck are you _talking_ about?” He almost tripped on the linen, then was free. Began to head for the stairs. “This isn't a game, Shane. We're not _kids_.” He stepped over a pillow on the way to the stairs. “I have to talk to Mark.”

“Who cares about him?”

“ _I_ do.” Shane was hot on his heels, almost in his way. Kian pushed the bedroom door open.

Mark looked up, the boat clutched in both hands. There were tears on his cheeks.

“Mark, I'm...”

“This is why you didn't want to say anything,” Mark croaked. “Because you and he were...” He wiped his face angrily. “I'm so fucking stupid.”

“No...” Kian glared over his shoulder at Shane. “It wasn't...”

“Just tell him, Kian,” Shane sneered. “What's the point in hiding it. He's not even really a person.” Kian saw Mark flinch, and before he could blink Shane had stormed over, yanked the boat from unresisting hands, and thrown it hard at the floor where it smashed to pieces with a splintering crack.

He didn't mean to shove Shane. Didn't mean to do it that hard. But Shane was sprawling into the dresser, knocking down a lamp on the way. Breaking glass, the sputter of light, and Kian couldn't tell if it was the lamp or his own rage, burning hot behind his eyes.

“Get out,” he snarled. Shane's eyes widened. He hadn't started to push himself up, looked too surprised. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“Kian...” A hand landed on his shoulder, pulling him back. When he turned Mark's eyes were pleading.

“Go back to the sea, seal-boy. He doesn't want you. He wants...”

“I do want him,” Kian said quietly. Shane stammered to a stop, face red. “I grew up, Shane. I don't want to play stupid games and listen to stupid stories any more. I want to live my actual life.”

“What, and be boring all the time?” Shane was pulling himself to his feet. “You used to be fun.”

“Fun?” Kian let out a broken laugh. “What's fun, Shane? Is it sitting up all hours hoping you're not dead or hurt somewhere? Listening to you cry in the middle of the night because you won't talk to me, and then having you dismiss every fucking thing I feel like it's inconvenient? I'm not your mother, Shane.”

“Don't bring my mam into this!”

“Why not, what did she ever do for you?” Kian spat back. Shane's eyes narrowed.

“He's lying to you. If you could just...”

“No, you are.” Kian's fists clenched. “You're full of shit, Shane. I used to feel sorry for you, but you know what? I'm done. I am fucking done with you making my whole life about your bullshit. Sort yourself out. It's not my responsibility.”

“But...” Shane wiped his eyes. “We're the lost boys.”

“Peter Pan was a selfish prick who stole other people's lives so he didn't have to face his own. He's the villain of the story.” Kian crossed his arms. “I'm shutting the window, Shane. Go back to Neverland.”

Shane's mouth stuttered on silent words. Kian felt a hand settle gently on his shoulder.

Shane ran.

Kian fell into a hug as the front door slammed.

  
  


*

  
  


“Are you okay?” Mark murmured. Kian shook his head. The sun was out, casting bright shadows across the bedroom, but inside he felt like a thunderstorm, needing somewhere to ground his anger. Mark had gotten him a glass of water, stepping over the broken boat, and was now crouched on the floor gathering up the pieces.

“I'm so sorry,” Kian managed thickly. “We never...”

“I know.” Mark reached up to squeeze his hand. “I know you didn't.” Kian sniffed. “That was quite a speech.”

“Guess I'd been thinking it for a while,” Kian admitted. There was a crunch as Mark accidentally stepped on a piece of wood. “Is it awful that I just want him to come back? I could say sorry and try to fix it.”

“It's not awful.” A clatter as two larger pieces dropped into the small bin Mark had grabbed from the bathroom. “It's what I love about you. You want to see the best in people. It doesn't mean you can fix everything.” He gave Kian a sympathetic smile. “Why don't I call Nicky and we can postpone tonight?”

“No. If I cancel he'll think something's up.” Kian bit his lip. “Sorry about your boat.”

“It's technically your boat.” It hadn't been, though. It had been Mark's boat, his only connection to his memories. It was the thing Kian was most angry about. Not for himself, but for Mark, who hadn't deserved this. “It's okay. It was just wood and paint.” He picked up a piece that had been the mast and inspected it. “Maybe Nicky will be able to tell us something.”

“Maybe.” Mark was still looking at the mast, turning it over. “What is it?”

“There's something inside.” He held it up to his eye, then brough it to his lips.

Blew.

Something went skittering across the floor, metal on wood.

“What's that?” Kian sat up as Mark crawled over to reach under the dresser, fumbling for where it had disappeared. Came out with a handful of cobwebs, though when he opened his fist Kian could see something in his palm.

“It's a key.” Mark blew the dust away.

“A...” Kian slid off the bed to have a closer look. Small key, a narrow column of rusted metal with a small seashell engraved into the end, the other studded with two tiny teeth. “What's it for?”

“I don't...” Mark peered at it, then his eyes widened. “I know where this goes.”

“Where?” Mark was standing up. “Mark?”

“Get the ladder,” Mark ordered.

  
  


*

  
  


Kian wrinkled his nose as he peered into the attic. As dirty as ever, but the smell of damp was thick, humidity caught in the rafters where the leak and the storm had turned it into a muggy swamp of dust and dank. He coughed, heard Mark sneeze in front of him.

“Definitely need to get that roof fixed,” Kian croaked. Mark hummed in agreement, then crawled past to where the chest still was, settled into the dark. Grabbed it, began to drag it towards the trapdoor.

He passed it out. Kian took it, settled it on the floor while Mark descended the ladder. It looked strange in the light. He'd never seen it out of the attic, he realised. Had seen no answers in it and left it there in the dark.

Mark landed beside him, then bent, picked it up, and headed for the stairs.

It ended up placed carefully on the kitchen table after the two of them waded through the mess of collapsed sheets on the living room floor. Kian sat, wondering where Mark was going with this. The box wasn't locked. The contents went in a pile on an empty chair, a rising mound of fabric, and then Mark was peering in, lips pursed.

He reached in, rapped on the bottom of the box. Knuckles on wood, faintly hollow.

“What is it?”

“Um.” Mark closed the box, turned it, then upside down on it's flat lid to expose the bottom. Ran his fingers over it. His eyes brightened and he fished the key out of his pocket.

Kian stood. A tiny brass keyhole. He wouldn't have seen it. Not in the dark, the chest in the corner. Had never thought to look at the bottom. Why would he? Everything he needed to know was inside.

The key turned. Clicked.

Mark lifted the bottom away.

“Holy...” Kian reached out. Two bundles of letters, knotted with string. “How did you...”

“I don't know.” Mark pressed a hand to his forehead, winced. “I just...” Kian was unknotting the string. The labels on the front were faded and almost unreadable, and the envelopes had all been ripped open, were ragged along the flaps. When he pulled a sheet of paper out and unfolded it, though, the writing was clear and cursive, kept preserved in the bottom of the box.

_My dearest Patricia..._

Kian felt tears fill his eyes.

“What is it?” A hand settled on his shoulder.

“My mam,” Kian croaked. “They're my mam's.” He looked at the bundles. At least a hundred letters. “My dearest Patricia, I am sorry I can't be with you but know you are always...” He cleared he throat, felt a tear track down his cheek. “Always in my heart. I think of you and our son...” He put the letter down, not able to look at it. “Oh fuck.”

“Why don't you take these upstairs,” Mark suggested gently. “I'll start tidying up.”

  
  


 


	18. Chapter 18

“ _The queen took fright and offered the little man all the wealth of the kingdom if he would let her keep the child, but the little man said, "No. Something living is dearer to me than all the treasures of the world.”  
-Rumpelstiltskin, Jacob & Wilhelm Grimm_

  
  


Once upon a time, there was a girl who lived in a big house in a small town by the sea.

She grew up well, the daughter of a pastor. It was a life that grew in circles. The house and the family and her father, then the ring of congregation. Of people who looked at them as the family to look up to. Good grades and politely turned out and mam and da always holding hands and inviting folks for dinner. Preaching love and respect and devotion and inviting people into their home, the outside circle bleeding into the smaller one, as interrupted dinners, late night phone calls, hushed conversation after the kids had gone to bed, and people who would come up in public, hug her father and thank him for his counsel and tell him their troubles while he nodded and promised to help.

The next circle was school, and the part-time job she got at the burger place to gather some pocket money, the girls who talked to her and curled their hair and wore too much makeup. To be treated with reticence and a small amount of pity while she tried to balance the middle ground between being the perfect daughter and the perfect student, the girl left behind when her friends piled into a boyfriend's car in their swimsuits and roared off to the beach, bottles clinking in the seatwells.

Then there was the boy.

The girls called him Buddy Holly. Slicked back hair and black-rimmed glasses and tight jeans. But he was kind, and when she was sat on the beach in her modest suit he'd sit beside her and ask what she was reading while the rest barrelled in, bare stomachs and long legs and loose hair in the sunlight.

He was kind, and interesting, and they talked about their dreams. He'd go to work for his uncle's fishing business after school finished and she'd go to university, get an education that would be squandered the moment she married and bore the next generation of perfect children.

A respectful boy. Who would kiss her on the cheek and come to dinner with her parents. They were waiting, of course. Too young and perhaps they'd marry later. Perhaps not.

They went slow in the back of his car on graduation night. He asked if she was sure.

She was sure. Felt desperate and rebellious and above all like he loved her. A sting of pain, a rush of blood, then she'd shivered a cry. Afterwards he kissed her until she stopped trembling.

There was no nausea, no sign, and regardless she'd always been irregular. Still, when her hips thickened her mother suggested it was time to stop eating so many sweets. She knew then. Sat in the doctor's waiting room with his hand clenched tightly in hers and promises in her ear that he'd love her no matter what.

He proposed that afternoon, both of them laid on his bed while she cried. It was sweet. Didn't feel like a favour, just like they were pushing the timeline forward. All she was able to think was that her carefully laid plans were shattered. No university. No moving away. Just sat at home waiting for her children to grow up and leave her, to carry on their own lives while she quietly devoted herself to her family.

Her father slapped her when she told them. Her mother cried. The next morning she was put in a car and sent to her aunt's house up north, the western coast unrolling beside her while she begged to just speak to him, please, to let him know she hadn't left without saying goodbye.

It was a small, ugly house on the spit, battered by wind and wave. Her aunt was kind enough, well-meaning enough, but it didn't change the look of disappointment when her father climbed back in the car, or the hug he withheld when she reached for him.

Then it was just she, and her aunt, in the little house by the sea.

The nights were long there, the days longer. The first semester of university began and instead she cooked and cleaned and sewed and passed the time listening to the radio and doing jigsaw puzzles and watching television. She wasn't allowed into town unaccompanied, but she would walk up and down the spit, feet sifting through the water and watching the seals play, the dolphins leap. Watch the wheel of the stars from her bedroom at night and write a long letter she wasn't allowed to send, one where she would explain everything to her love, the things she'd never gotten a chance to say and how she would find a way back to him.

But she loved her baby, as it swelled in her. Made small dreams about how it would have his eyes and her nose and his smile. Resented it as much, as two months passed and then three and the girls came home from the university talking about lectures and boys and her aunt would hurry her along in the supermarket and mentioned she'd soon be showing.

When she was she had to stay at home to avoid the indignity of her situation being made public. Sat in the house until she couldn't any more and went walking up the beach, swollen feet in the water. Was on the mainland before she knew it, at the edge where the spit became the road, and stood there, unsure. Feeling like a caged animal that couldn't brave the outside after years of captivity.

There was a post-box there. She stared at it, the sun hot on the back of her neck.

Then she began the long walk back.

That night, when her aunt was asleep, she added to the letter. That she was here, that she was waiting. That if he could come driving in his beat-up car she'd climb in and they could escape, take the baby they'd made in the backseat and start somewhere else.

She went to bed hopeful. Woke the next morning wet.

Knew before she saw the blood that something was wrong. From the cramp that made her grit her teeth and the ugly stillness inside her. Screamed until her aunt came running and when the doctor came he examined her and asked how long it had been since she'd felt the baby move.

She went to the hospital. And for the first time in months she couldn't hear the eternal sussuration of the sea, was in a clean white room in a bed she hadn't made herself and a floor she hadn't swept.

The baby was small, when she finally birthed it. She saw it for a moment before it was bundled and swept away, and in her heart she named him. Gave a soul to unformed hands and unopened eyes. Her aunt picked her up that afternoon, and through the pious rationality, in her heart she thought maybe there was feeling there, something that was sorry for her loss.

She was weak, the next few days. Stayed in her bed after her aunt set food by her and went to work, and after she slept she added to the letter. Didn't know what to say except she was sorry. That it was her fault. For not fighting hard enough. For not being braver. For climbing into his car that evening, and into her father's car that morning. And when she read it back all she could see was a list of things she'd never done, since her mother had told her it was unseemly for a girl her age to be climbing trees in shorts.

She heard her aunt calling her father, asking if she should be sent back home. Didn't hear the response but knew the answer, that the shepherd could forgive his flock, but a useless dog should be put down lest it give the sheep ideas.

Her aunt said she could stay as long as she liked, and when she was well they went into town. Bought her dresses and books and while she was there she saw a notice in the cafe for waitresses and applied. Took it on part-time while her aunt helped her to enrol in the local community college. And slowly her little circle began to spread again. Girls in class who giggled and gossiped about who they were shagging while she smiled wryly and kept her mouth shut. Parties she went to and boys she didn't kiss.

And still her letter grew, a diary of what had happened, and how with every page she felt further from that life, the one that was beginning to feel like fiction.

Her aunt took ill. Fell while gardening and was taken by the paramedics. Two days later there were funeral arrangements and will readings and the house was empty and quiet, except for her sobs and the murmur of the sea.

She'd been left everything. The little house, what fair amount was in savings. She rallied best she could, kept attending classes and going to work, but inside she was lonely. Missed conversation and the comfort of someone else to come home to in the evening.

She added to the letter. Took the long walk to the post-box and stood there, a thick envelope in her hand. Didn't know if it would find him, after all this time, but she was able to post-mark it to his parents and hoped they would send it on.

It was swallowed by the slot. She cried on the walk back, her tears dried by the wind.

Two months later there was the shuffle of letters through the slot. She scooped them up, sorting through bills and catalogues, and then paused, her heart a disbelieving freeze in her throat.

She put the others aside. Made herself a cup of tea and sat on the bed, turning it over and over in her hands, excited and frightened by the uncertainty of the paper within.

The flap she tore open almost reverently. Unfolded it and saw familiar handwriting that made her heart leap.

Her father had gone to him. Told him the child wasn't his, that his daughter was a liar. That she'd run with her boyfriend and gone abroad to have the baby. She read, horrified, of how she'd been spoken about in whispers, how he'd been taken for a fool, and how, heart broken, he'd gone to work at his uncle's fishing company down south as he'd always intended.

How he'd met a girl, those two years ago. That they were married and expecting a daughter.

She screamed. Opened the window and shrieked at the sea.

Then she sat down and carefully wrote a letter saying she understood, and that she hoped he was happy and safe, that she wished the best for his wife and daughter and signed it _with love_.

She finished college, got her certificate, and got a new job. A good job, doing administration for a small family law firm in town. Friendly people and good pay and she started saving, adding to what remained of her aunt's inheritance once the bills had been paid and she'd done a little upkeep on the house. There was a paralegal there, a nice man who would joke with her in the lunch room, so she went out with him on a date, then another. He was sweet to her, but she was carefully aloof, and when they went to bed she didn't tell him about what had happened last time, and all the time in between.

The knock came late on a Saturday morning, while she was watching television.

He nervously said hello, pushed his Buddy Holly glasses back up his nose, and began to shrug off his seal-skin coat.

She asked him in.

They talked. For hours. It felt like writing her letter all over again, hearing his in reply. But this time he could see her tears, and her smiles, share the laughter and the loss, and when they were done talking and the bottle of wine was empty she took him upstairs.

He left early the next morning. Had come for the tuna season. That night he returned and she cooked him dinner and they went for a walk down the spit, making new memories. He told her about his daughter, just born, and his wife. Showed her a picture. A pretty woman holding an infant swaddled in pink, sat on a swing in a garden bursting with flowers while on the spit another girl breathed in the salt and waited for the grey clouds to part.

She drove him to the marina the next morning, watched from the car as he boarded a blue and white fishing boat with a yellow seashell painted on the prow. He waved. She waved back.

Then he was gone.

Three months later, cramps vicious and blood on the sheets she cried again. Wondered if this was punishment. A union that couldn't bear fruit no matter how much she wanted it. When she replied to his next letter she told him she had been well, and she was continuing to date the young paralegal, though she knew her aloofness was becoming tiresome when there were other girls about. He replied that he seemed a good prospect, but reminded her to follow her own happiness, that he cared for her too much to let her settle.

She broke up with the paralegal the next day. Sent another letter. And back and forth they went like that, a staggered conversation that began _with love_ , then added a kiss, and _my darling_ and _I miss you_ until it felt like they spoke of nothing else.

He came back the next season. She met him at the marina, waited in the car her aunt had left while he climbed off a blue and white boat with a faded seashell, and when he told her about his year and his daughter and all the things that had gone on she felt herself grow more in love with him.

Three weeks after he left she lost the baby she hadn't even known she was carrying yet. She didn't tell him of that one either. Or the next, a year later and no less painful. Couldn't bear to break his heart the way hers had, for a child he didn't want. But she wanted. A small voice and love that couldn't leave the way he did. A boy with his eyes and smile. A girl she could give the opportunities she'd never had.

After he left the next year she held her breath. And held it. And held it. While she kindled and thickened and swelled and waited for that morning. The pain. The cramp. The blood that would tell her it was over. While she grew and made doctor's appointments and waited to be told the cord had strangled him or her fluid had leaked. That it was her fault. Always her fault. For wanting it so badly.

The labour was long. She bore it by herself, the midwife and the doctors urging her through it, and finally, when they handed her the baby, she thought to ask how long until they took it away, because surely it was dead.

Instead it cried. Worked it's lungs and clenched tiny fists and fretted it's chubby little legs until she turned it to her breast. They let it sleep beside her that night. She didn't sleep. Exhausted and watching every breath. Healthy and strong and pink. They showed her how to clean him and change him and feed him, and she took him home, her gift from the sea.

Three months later she met him at the door with her boy in his arms. Kian. He asked why she hadn't told him and she said she'd not expected it to last, that she couldn't bear the heartbreak of failing him again. He stayed two weeks of nights, cooing to his son and helping her around the house with things she hadn't been able to do herself. It felt like having him. A husband who held her at night and fixed the hole in the roof.

A year of correspondence. A year of sending photos as the baby grew into a sweet, golden haired boy who looked a little like his father when he smiled. She told him about his dada, who came in from the sea once a year.

She went back to work. Saved her money. Raised her boy. One day, when her back was turned, he ran into the sea and was swept under. Just for a moment, but when she pulled him out he was blue and still and when he breathed and spat out water she held him close while she waited for the ambulance, sobbing and telling him never to go in again. That it would take him like it had all the others.

She grew resentful of it. Had thought Kian would change things, perhaps, but her loneliness swelled and hardened. At night she thought she heard it whispering to her. That it had filled her womb with saltwater. That her son would be taken as well. It brought and took away her heart with the tide, everything she'd ever had. A purgatory she'd been cursed to inhabit for the sin of loving a boy. For forsaking her father. For not cherishing her aunt, who'd tried her best to help. For wanting to keep the man who had grown and changed without her, seeded by sand and watered by foam.

He brought her a chest the next time he came. A beautiful carved chest with a seashell clasp. When she opened it there was a wooden boat inside, a replica of his own to give to her son. She thanked him and inside she hated it. For giving her son the same means of escape he boarded every year.

There was a secret panel underneath. He showed her. The small key that fit it. When he left she put all his letters inside and stored it in the attic, the boat inside. A heart that beat above her head, locked in the dank and the dark, her son's laughter almost drowning it out.

The sixth child was lost. She wiped away the blood, the tears she shed alone in the bathroom while her son knocked on the door and shout-asked if he could have a sweet please mam. She cleared her throat and said yes, and told him to make up a game to play for when she came back out.

She'd lose him too. Knew it. He'd come out of her, the same as all the others, grown strong and beautiful and blonde and sweet. The others had lived too. This one smaller than a bean, but the others larger, almost real as she'd swelled and hoped and made plans that had skittered away in bloody sheets and sympathetic doctors that had said they were sorry and then explained the science like chemical equations and charts could rationalise the pain away.

Six months later she was sent another letter. From a sweet, pretty woman with a daughter who had found her letters. Had sent them back to her tied with string, in a box dropped at her door by the postman. A woman who said she was sorry, but not to contact her husband again. That she and her baby needed to leave them alone, and that she wouldn't be visited again.

She shrieked. Sobbed at the sea until her boy wrapped chubby arms around her neck and said mama, why are you crying, and she told him not to worry, that she would protect him first and most and forever.

She kept her promise. Stayed home, day after day. He was safe in here, where she could see him. They played games and she told him stories and when he asked if he could play in the sea she said never. Never never never. Called work and told them she wouldn't be going back in, that she was glad for the opportunities they had given her over the years.

She began to write another letter. Another long confession that felt like fiction when she read it back. About how she'd tried, how she'd wanted. How she loved and needed and couldn't live like this, trapped on the edge of the world and waiting for the tide to come back in. Told him of the blood and the pain. The doctors. How she loved their boy.

He was three when there was a knock on the door. He was holding her letter. Looked at her. At what she'd become, a host sucked dry. Shrugged off his seal-skin coat and went upstairs to look at their sleeping boy and asked her why she'd lied to him about all the others. She heard the accusation in his voice. That this was her fault. She raged at him. That he had no right. And when she looked at him she realised she didn't know him. This man who'd once been patient and kind and asked what she'd been reading, who'd touched and held her in the back of a car, then afterwards when he'd made such earnest promises.

I'll take him, he said. Give you a break. Her son had giggled and groped at the moustache her love had grown sometime in the last year.

I spoke to my wife. We can give him a good life.

You're not well. I'm worried about our son.

She looked at herself. At the paint on her apron, her bare feet and cracked toenails. A narrow shell of what she'd been ten years before, that girl sat in a modest swimsuit, a towel between her and the warm sand. At her son in her arms, deserving more that this barren spit and this tiny house.

A week, she pleaded. Give me a week. Blue eyes watched her. Kian was walking, now, stringing together sentences that were lisping and babbled. I love you, mama. She wondered if he'd remember her, or if he'd forget her too. Like her father, like her mother, like the sweet paralegal. Like Buddy Holly, who was staring at her as though seeing a stranger for the first time.

Saturday morning, he promised. She nodded. Held her son while he left the house and went back to the sea.

She wrote another letter that week. A last one, for her son. Explaining why she'd done it. That she couldn't live without him, with herself. In a broken, salt-washed shack of false dreams and ever-endings. That she hoped he'd be happy and that when he grew the house was his, if he wanted it. A place to start. To do what she'd never been able and find happiness, and safety, and someone who loved him. To make it his own instead of rotting away in a cage, like she had done.

That Saturday morning she made him breakfast, packed his bag with his favourite toys, and put all the letters in the bottom of the chest, the key in the mast of the toy boat she'd never been able to let him play with.

Then she told him his dada would be along in a moment, shut the door, and walked the two hours to the point at the far end of the cove, the little house a dot in the distance, held steady on a spit of sand and scrub grass.

Then she filled her pockets with rocks and jumped into the raging sea.

  
  


 


	19. Chapter 19

_A breakwater built by the waves broke the initial force of the sea and weakened the onrush of the tide. Though it was amazing that she could do so, she leapt onto it: she flew, and, beating the soft air on new-found wings, a sorrowing bird, she skimmed the surface of the waves.  
\- Metamorphosis: Alcyone & Ceyx, Ovid_

  
  


Kian sat on the bed, tears running down his cheeks. It had taken him a while to realise there were two sets, each from his mother and his father. Had gone through them carefully to match dates and times, and now the whole story sat in a neat pile in front of him. Pages of hope and anguish and love and sadness and joy. Pages where he'd laughed at their little jokes and studied the polaroid photos that had fallen out of the envelopes.

His second mug of tea had long gone cold beside him. He wiped his eyes, heard a creak, and when he looked up Mark was peering round the door.

“Want a fresh one?” Kian nodded, clearing his throat.

“Yes please.” Mark sidled in to pick it up. “Can I have a hug?”

“Course.” Mark sat down, careful to avoid jostling the papers, and pulled him in. Kian went. Let out a sob that started in his stomach and felt a kiss press to his forehead.

“He never came,” Kian breathed. “Why didn't he ever come?” Fingers stroked gently through his hair and Mark, blessedly, didn't ask for details. “How did you know? About the key?”

“I don't know.” It was apologetic.

“You have to,” Kian argued. Heard his own frustration boil into anger. “You _have_ to know. How can you know and not...” He sobbed, pushed at Mark's chest, though strong arms didn't let him escape, didn't let him fight. “It's not _fair_.”

“No,” Mark murmured. “It's not.” Kian collapsed into his embrace. “It's not fair.” His hand settled on the bundle of letters Kian had carefully stacked. “Did you find any answers?”

There wasn't a way to explain, so instead Kian stayed, held in Mark's arms as the sun began to set.

  
  


*

  
  


Kian felt a little better after a hot shower. He came downstairs to find Mark peering into the oven, the smell of roasting lamb thick through the house. Felt his mouth water and realised he hadn't eaten all day, that he was starved, and when Mark looked up and smiled at him he found he was smiling back.

Nicky and Jodi arrived just before six and commented on how good everything smelled. Kian took their coats. Jodi looked pretty in a casual dress, Nicky handsome in an open-necked shirt, and for a moment Kian wondered if Shane would be checking him out.

He squashed the thought. Let them in to Mark pulling the trays out of the oven, cute in bumblebee oven mitts.

“Where's Shane?”

“Shane's not joining us,” Kian said, and reached for a bottle of wine he'd been saving for a special occasion. Mark handed him the corkscrew. “Cheers. He's erm...” Nicky was raising an eyebrow. “We agreed it was maybe time he'd outstayed his welcome.”

“Oh.” Jodi sounded confused. Mark was blessedly silent. “Where is he now, then?”

“I'm not sure,” Kian admitted. It was as though he'd never been. Mark had done a perfect job of restoring the house to it's normal order while Kian had been reading, and he was grateful for it. Everything back in its place. “Wine?”

“Just one,” Nicky chuckled. Kian began to pour. “I've looked into your boat, Mark.” Both he and Kian looked up, interested. “It's similar to a fishing company down south. We're checking into it now to see if there's some connection. Halcyon Fisheries.”

“Halcyon,” Mark echoed. “No. I don't know it.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”

“I might,” Kian admitted nervously. His heart was pounding. Stomach sick. “My... my dad might have worked there.” Mark's eyes widened in surprise. “I found letters. From my mam. I think...” He looked at them all helplessly. “Do you know anything else about it?”

“I can get a report sent.” Kian felt pale. Realised he was still gripping the bottle and put down Nicky's glass, began to pour another one for Jodi, though it sloshed slightly onto his fingers and down his hand. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. Fine.” He didn't want to relive it. Not right now. This was about Mark and he was exhausted already, head too confused by the whole thing to have a rational conversation. “Sorry. Long day.” He poured a drink for himself and Mark then sat down. A plate landed in front of him. “This looks brilliant. Thank you.”

It tasted brilliant as well. Nicky had seconds, though Jodi declined when she heard there was dessert. Mark came back with four toffee tarts and whipped cream.

“It's obviously been a joy to have him round the house,” Kian joked, got a gentle glare from Mark.

“And everything's been working out?” Jodi asked.

“I think we've been getting by all right,” Mark interrupted. “Kian's been really good to me. I just wish I could give back a bit, you know? Get a job or pay my way or whatever.” He sat down again once the tart were served.

“You know I don't mind.”

“I do,” Mark argued gently. “I'd like to be able to do more,” he told Jodi. “I know I'm supposed to be like... impaired or whatever, but I'd like to be able to feel like a person again, basically. Or for the first time. You know what I mean.” He took a deep breath. “I don't want Kian to be my guardian.”

Kian felt his heart stop. Saw Jodi and Nicky look confused.

“Did I do something wrong?” Kian managed. “If you want to leave...”

“I don't want to leave.” Mark was smiling and Kian was utterly confused. “I want someone to tell me I'm of sound mind, even if not all the pieces are there. Because I'm sick of feeling...” He bit his lip. “I don't want to be crazy any more. It's not helping anything.”

“You're not crazy,” Jodi said. “Of course you're not.” Mark didn't look convinced. “We can talk to a psychologist if you like. Get your case updated.” She exchanged a look with Nicky. “Why don't we see how we go on the lead Nicky's found and work from there?” Mark nodded.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” He glanced at Kian, who was still dumbfounded. “Sorry, everyone tuck in. The cream'll melt.” He picked up his fork. “Kian, you're catching flies.”

“Sorry.” He closed his mouth. Got a sly smile in reply. “You are staying, though.”

“Course I'm staying.” Mark reached for his wine. “Where else was I gonna go?”

  
  


*

  
  


Dinner was a rousing success. Nicky and Jodi praising the food and the company as Mark walked them down to the car, an approving smile passing between them, something that made Kian think things were going to look up, break them out of this strange purgatory they'd been sat in for the past few months.

Mark walked him back up the drive, and when they were out of sight leaned in to kiss him.

“Cheeky shit,” Kian whispered. Mark smirked.

“I'm feeling much better now,” Mark teased. “Don't need a guardian any more.” A hand groped gently at his arse and Kian laughed. Kissed him again, a hard peck that turned into a slow snog until they parted, breathless. “Your dad?”

“It's a long story.” He still didn't know how to feel about it. How to steady it in his mind. Whether he was supposed to hate one of them or just feel sorry for both his parents. For the clumsy game they'd played with each other, pretending it was real. “I'll tell you the whole thing in the morning. I just...” He wrapped his arms around Mark's shoulders.

“Take your time.” Kian nodded and leaned his head in Mark's neck. “How about another glass of wine and we'll go to bed?”

“I'd like that. Just going to put on my pyjamas first.”

“I'll grab the bottle,” Mark offered. “Meet you down near the water?” Kian nodded.

“Romantic.”

“Mm...” He was swept into another slow kiss. “Go on. Love you.”

“Love you too.” Then he was being nudged towards the house.

“I like watching you walk away,” Mark teased.

Kian laughed, and headed inside.

  
  


*

  
  


Kian felt better out of his clothes. Wriggled into a pair of comfortable boxers and a t-shirt, pushing his hair back. Studied himself in the mirror. The letters were still on the bed, and he reached for a photo he knew was in in the pile, one of his dad. Held it up beside his reflection and tried to find the similarities.

All he could see was her. Her eyes, her nose.

Then he smiled and he saw it, felt his eyes well with tears and the smile fade.

He was slotting the picture into it's rightful place when there was a knock on the door. Heard footsteps and knew Mark was getting it. Wondered if it was their guests back again, having forgotten a jacket or a purse.

The door closed again.

“Mark?” he called out. “Who is it?”

In the silence of the house he heard a car, driving away. Went downstairs, curious, and headed for the front door. Saw a bottle of wine, sat on the side-table, a folded blanket placed on the floor. When he opened the door ther was no sign of Mark. No figure at the edge of the water.

His phone beeped in the living room.

Shane.

_Come to the point. I'll show you._

Panic set in.

Kian grabbed his keys and raced to the car, already dialling Jodi's number.

  
  


*

  
  


It was pitch black when he made it to the carpark at the base of the point. Pulled the car in hurriedly, not caring about kicked up gravel or that he was double parked. His lungs burned as he raced up the hill, thighs ached. The stairs were wet and slippery, almost vertical, and when he crested them and sprinted clumsily through the picnic area near the lookout he could feel the height of it, ten metres above the water and the rocks below, the drop that felt like a mile.

He paused, panting. Saw a shape in the moonlight. Two huddled figures together, one slumped on his knees and the other bent.

“Shane...” Kian approached slowly. Saw dazed hazel eyes look up and realised they weren't seeing, not really. “What are you doing?” There was blood on Mark's forehead, and when Kian stepped a little closer he realised his hands and feet were bound behind his back, that there was a knife at his throat.

“Kian's here,” Shane said absently. “Mark, look, Kian's here.” Mark didn't move. Eyes open, locked on the ground. There was a backpack in front of him, zipped closed. “Stop there.”

Kian did. Not close enough.

“You didn't believe me,” Shane mumbled. “You always believed me.” Kian put his hands up carefully, resisting the urge to rush at them. Too dangerous. He'd pitch one or all of them over the edge and into the sea. “I saw you tonight. I saw you _both_.” His free hand tangled in Mark's hair, the other still at his throat. “It's an enchantment. I know it is. I'm trying to help you.” He swallowed. “I've known you forever and he could bewitch you in three months. You know that's not right.”

“Shane,” Kian crouched slightly, trying to keep his voice low. “You need to stop, love. It's not a story.” Mark's eyes were bright and frightened. Kian tried not to look at them. To keep watching Shane. “Come here and we can talk about it.”

“No. You'll try to convince me...” He looked at Mark. “Stop _moving_.”

“He's not,” Kian coaxed. Mark hadn't. Was as still as ever. “Tell me what you're thinking, yeah. I'll try to help.” He saw it. A moment of hesitation. “Remember that time we snuck out and got drunk in the park? We could do that again. Have a chat.”

“Which time?” Shane teased numbly. Kian saw him sway. “Nobody ever believes me.”

“I do.”

“You don't. You just want me to shut up.” A tear tracked down his cheek. “I told them, you know? Mam was out all the time and my sister took care of me, and I told both of them. What he was doing.” A sob lurched out of his chest. “They didn't believe me.” He wiped his eye clumsily on his shoulder. “He'd read me a bedtime story. They all though he was nice. My sister's nice boyfriend, helping out while my dad was wherever the fuck he was.”

“I'm sorry,” Kian said. And he was. He'd suspected, of course, but he'd never expected Shane to say it. Not when there were fairytales and nursery rhymes to share instead. “I'm really sorry that happened to you, Shane.”

“I liked the stories,” Shane whispered. “He said he'd tell me how they ended if...” A sob leapt from his lips and he closed his eyes. “He didn't hurt me to start, so I let him. I thought...”

“You were a little boy, Shane. It wasn't your fault.” Light in the sky. Shane flinched as it passed across him, a bright spotlight. A television chopper; a rescue chopper. Maybe both. Saw blue and red lights pull into the parking lot, one after the other.

“They don't believe me. They believed me when it was nice, but when it wasn't it was stupid Shane, making things up. Stupid Shane, looking for attention. Crazy fucking Shane who was lying to my mam because I wanted to hurt her for my dad leaving, because I wanted to rip my family apart! And now you won't even...” He sobbed. “They wanted to know when he was a boring stupid boy washed up on the beach, but when I told them what I saw they laughed at me. _You_ laughed at me.”

“I never laughed at you,” Kian coaxed. Shane was swaying slightly, the hand on the knife trembling. “I was confused. I believe you. I promise I do.” Shane pursed his lips suspiciously. “You were right.”

“You were,” Mark added. There was blood matting down his hair, a trickle past his ear. Shane glanced down at him. “You were right, Shane. Now just let me go and we'll talk about it.” The police were coming up the stairs, Kian could hear the drumbeat of their feet on cement. Shane stared between both of him.

Then he bent and cut Mark's wrists free.

Kian breathed a sigh of relief. Took a step closer. Shane gave him a warning look which stopped him in his tracks.

“Open the bag.” The knife was back at Mark's throat. Clumsy hands obediently unzipped the top, Mark's adam's apple bobbing near the blade. “Take it out.” Mark did, and Kian saw something grey and loose unfold from the pack.

A seal skin.

“Where did you get that?” Kian asked carefully

“Bought it off a fisherman,” Shane spat. “Figure one's the same as the others.” He edged backwards slightly, taking Mark with him in a dragging shuffle. It was cut and cleaned, not fresh from the seal but tanned. Kian wondered how illegal that was, then decided it wasn't the most important thing to consider right now. “Put it on.”

“Shane...”

“Put it _on_.” Kian felt presence behind him. Looked over to see Nicky and five other policemen, their guns drawn. All trained on Shane. “There's all these people here,” Shane said dimly. “Now they get to see it too.” He yanked Mark backwards, until he was tilting over the edge. “Everyone will believe me.” The roar of a speedboat somewhere below. Too far away.

“Shane...”

“Everyone will believe me,” Shane whispered.

Then he kicked Mark backwards, over the drop.

  
  


*

  
  


The seconds broke, as Kian stood there. Small, shattered moments, spreading across time like the stars splattered across the sky. He saw the spotlight, heard the click of pistols being cocked. Saw Mark's mouth open as he tipped backwards, hands fluttering up for purchase and legs bound together.

Felt his own foot hit the dirt and skid. Then the next. Saw Shane twist. Heard the roar of the speedboat below. Nicky's soft shout. Mark's, as he disappeared past the edge.

Then Kian was falling. Past the rocks. Mark below him and hitting the water. The slow ripple of the surface breaking then spreading. Gone to the depths while Kian fell and the waves crashed and the rocks gnashed foam like the teeth of an angry crocodile frozen to the time of a swallowed clock.

Cold. Hard. The water a unforgiving net that caught him then compressed him. Ears popping and out the bottom, the murk an upside down universe where the sky was green and the ground lay far below. And in the darkness a shape, flippers tilling and tail flipping while Kian groped for the surface.

Wriggling seal, almost unconscious, but when it bent to its tail Kian saw the ripple of thread pull free and the shape of the creature shift to reveal a man, legs kicking clumsily and fighting toward the world above.

He sank. Clawed for air that wouldn't come.

The sea swallowed him up.

  
  


 


	20. Chapter 20

_In time they could not even fly after their hats. Want of practice, they called it; but what it really meant was that they no longer believed.  
\- Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie_

  
  


It was warm, on the beach. Kian sat on the edge, chubby feet waving in the tickly foam that rushed up around him. He'd wanted a sweet, but his mama had said it would get all sandy and to wait until he came inside.

He wasn't good at waiting. Not yet. But as she came down the front path from the little house on the spit he felt his arms stretch, legs grow strong. Hair that shortened then lengthened then shortened again while acne scattered and cleared on his cheeks. When she sat beside him he was as tall as her and she smiled, the sun turning her hair mahogany.

You grew up, she said.

Yes. He looked down at his feet, long toes catching the water. You missed it.

She was sorry. He knew before she said it. Before she quietly said she loved him and that it had never been his fault. That he'd been wanted. A hundred times over. When his dad sat down on his other side he smelled fish and comfort, and looked up into square glasses that magnified apologetic eyes.

My little Kian, he said. You need to wake up.

He looked up, at the sunny sky and the crystal water, and the seals sunning themselves in the rocks off shore.

Her hand covered his.

Kian, she murmured. Wake up.

  
  


*

  
  


The water came up in a fretful vomit as he opened his eyes, felt his chest wrench with pain. The water twisted, red and blue, and for a moment he wondered if he was still under, the darkness sucking him down and the lack of oxygen short-circuiting his system.

“Kian.” He coughed out another mouthful of water. “Can you hear me?”

“Ow,” he croaked. The man performing CPR pulled back. There was definitely a rib broken. “Oh fuck.” He threw up again, this time his dinner coming up with the seawater, and had time to absently regret losing a meal Mark had spent so much time on before he was rolled on his side, yelping with pain.

“You're gonna be okay,” someone promised. That sounded unlikely.

“Mark.”

“He's in the ambulance.” Kian could hear the sirens. “You're going into the next one.” Nicky's voice, loud over the angry blur of helicopters. “That was quite a leap.”

“I can't swim,” Kian mumbled. Nicky chuckled.

“I could tell.” Kian giggled, almost hysterical, and was lifted onto the stretcher.

The road rumbled beneath him. Passing in and out of consciousness. Soft memories that clung at his dreams. White sheets and covered torches and ice-cream. The first boy he'd ever kissed. Mark, sitting in the water while they'd looked out at the sea.

He woke again in a white room, the morning sun streaming through his window.

“Hello.” It was soft in his ear. He turned to nuzzle into the shape beside him and blinked in surprise when he saw blue eyes, a white hospital gown. Forehead broken by a bandage and a worried smile that broadened when he returned it with a weak one of his own.

“Hi.” He coughed. Felt the sharp wrench of his broken rib complaining and the burn of a throat scorched by saltwater. “You're alive.”

“So are you.” Fingers touched his cheek. “Do you remember what happened?”

“The seal,” Kian said. Then shook his head when the rest came in. “You. I jumped.” Mark nodded. “Hurts.”

“You drowned.”

“You?”

“I can swim,” Mark chuckled. Kian rolled his eyes. “A few bruises, but I'm okay.” Kian nodded. “They let me come in and sit with you, but I've got to go back to my own room in a bit. You need to rest.”

“Oh.” His hand was squeezed. Shock of the water. It felt distant, like time in reverse. “Shane...”

“Is in custody.” Kian nodded. He was half surprised he hadn't taken a bullet. Didn't know if that was good or not but couldn't find the energy for anger, not when he was floating on whatever they'd given him for the pain.

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“Shane...”

“You did the best you could,” Mark promised, and if Kian had been able to, he would have started to cry. “It's probably worked out for the best, to be honest. I think the shock knocked a few memories loose.” Kian's eyes widened. “We can talk about it when you're up.”

“You know?”

“Not all. Some.” His hair was pushed gently back from his forehead. They looked up as a nurse opened the door, smiled when she saw him awake. “I'd better go. You need to sleep.” Kian nodded.

“Kiss?”

“Of course.” Mark bent in. Soft lips that breathed life back into a mouth that could only remember the taste of seawater. It was slow. Clung while Mark went to pull away and Kian coaxed him back in, needing to find the breath of him, if only for a moment.

When it finally broke he realised Nicky and Jodi were stood in the doorway, Nicky with a bunch of flowers held in one hand.

“Er...” Mark giggled. “Better go then.” Kian snorted. Winced. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Mark edged past them and disappeared.

“So.” Jodi glanced at Nicky, who was trying not to laugh. “How are you feeling?”

Kian snorted. Nicky handed him the flowers. A floundering, unsure moment later Jodi took them away and began to arrange them beside the bed.

“I've already taken Mark's statement,” Nicky said. Kian nodded. They knew then. Not all of it, but enough that it was clear that Kian's care was no place for anyone. “You should have told me things were that bad.”

“I didn't know,” Kian admitted. Nicky nodded. “I tried...” His voice gave out and he put a hand on his chest to stop himself coughing.

“I know.” He glanced at Jodi. “Rest first. We're just here to check on you. You did a very stupid, very brave thing.” A hand patted his gently. “Mark's promised to make us all dinner again when you get out of here, so there's that to look forward to.” Kian wheezed a pained laugh. “I heard something about pork cutlets.”

A nurse came not long after to check on him, ushering them out of the room. Kian heard Nicky say he was hungry as he left, and smirked to himself. She asked what was so funny.

He just shook his head and let her get on with her job.

  
  


*

  
  


The little house on the sea looked grey and small as he sat in the passenger seat. The sky was a blue that was paling into the darkness, the first stars picked around the heavy full moon. Kian winced as they turned the corner and the seatbelt tugged his healing ribs.

He'd been desperate to leave the hospital. Wanted his own bed, his own house. Food that didn't come in a pre-packed tray and his own hot shower.

Nicky parked. Opened his door for him while he fumbled with the seatbelt and realised his car was back, in the carport beside the house where it always stood.

“I got one of the lads to drive it over for you,” Nicky explained. Kian nodded gratefully. It was a harder walk than usual, up the path to the front door, and by the time he made it he was a little out of breath, his rib aching. Nicky handed him his keys, apparently retrieved from the ignition of the car.

“Cheers.” He guided it into the lock, felt the familiar click of the tumblers turning. The house was dark. He clicked on the hall light, dropped the keys in the bowl. Shifted uncomfortably in his loose sweater as he ambled down the hall, desperate for his own sofa. “Thanks for the lift.”

“Couldn't have you getting a cab,” Nicky chuckled. “And anyway, everyone else was busy.”

“Everyone...”

“All your friends.” Nicky winked. When Kian turned the corner he realised he could hear voices, and when he heard a low, carrying laugh he felt his heart leap.

Soft blue eyes met his.

“Hey.” Mark stood up. Bryan waved merrily from the sofa, beer in his hand and a bowl of crisps on his lap. Jodi gave him a wink from the kitchen door. “Welcome home.”

“Guys, you didn't...” A careful hug wrapped around him, mindful of his ribs. “Mark.”

“That's me,” Mark murmured. Kian sobbed once. Managed to control himself when he felt a kiss brush his cheek. “They wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Thanks.” He pulled back. Hesitated. Then leant in, felt a soft mouth press to his. Bryan catcalled them from the sofa and Nicky laughed and punched him in the shoulder.

“Dinner almost ready?”

“Bacon-wrapped turkey breast in rum gravy.” There was a patter of feet while Nicky darted for the kitchen, whooping. “He's been asking about it all day.” Mark drew back. “Don't touch it, Nicky!” There was a thunk as the oven door shut again. Kian saw Bryan climb casually up too and began to lope towards the kitchen. “We've got a lot to talk about it.”

“We do.” Kian kissed him again. “But let's start with dinner.”

  
  


*

  
  


Once, in a town not too far from here, there lived a young man who liked to cook.

He had a normal sort of childhood. Parents who loved him and brothers he could call his friends. He'd sit on the kitchen counter and watch his mam cook dinner and when he got older she'd let him help. Taught him to beat an egg and to hold a knife and to use the stove. Then, later, he was sent to London to study cooking at the culinary school there, like he had always wanted.

He didn't make friends easily. Was a quiet boy with a small circle. He didn't like to stay in one place, so when he was finished studying he went travelling. Took his savings and a backpack and took comfort in feet on unmarked trails and wheels on hidden roads. Walked through markets and town centres and stayed in hostels. Small jobs in small places that smelled of spices and could use a cook that would accept cash and didn't intend to stay for long.

But, though he travelled the world, he began to miss home and contact that didn't just require rare phone calls or emails whenever he was somewhere with a connection, postcards from a hundred cities. Brief visits every Christmas to catch up and share stories and then off again, the world at his back and fresh tastes on his tongue and meeting people whose names and faces he wouldn't remember in a week, just as they wouldn't remember his.

He wanted someone who remembered. Who would call him family and invite him in.

And so he returned home.

It was the long way round. Always was, with him. Off the plane at Cherbourg, a ferry to Dublin. And along the way he met a young man who was friendly and sexy and spoke little English, and in his cabin that night they got drunk and fucked awkwardly in a bed that tilted with the currents.

They climbed off together. Took a coach to the west coast where they were to separate and stayed there a month, shagging in a motel room by the water, where the fishing boats would come in and out.

It was a quaint little town. They didn't go outside much, but when they did it was to watch trawlers pass the bay, dragging nets of tuna. Handsome blue and white boats with sea-shells painted on the prow and sun-leathered men shouting merrily at each other. Mark got to talking with a few of them. Learned a little about the area and the opportunities further north where the men lamented the halting of licensed bluefin fishing, though there were boats that went for whale and dolphin watching and some of the men would go in the off-season, to make a little coin pointing out breaches and dorsal fins to excited tourists.

He was walking through a small shop, looking at plastic fish-magnets and worthless bead necklaces, when he saw the chest. Bent to look at it, thinking it was a sweet little souvenir for his mother, and was told it was by a local craftsman. She showed him the small lock underneath. He promised to come back for one, passing a rack of wooden toy boats on the way out.

The next morning his companion left. Mark kissed him goodbye, sent him to whatever tourist traps he was destined for next, and that afternoon packed up his belongings and called his mother. Didn't tell her of his surprise visit, but that he was in Calcutta and how were things at home.

She chuckled and told him they were actually headed off on a cruise tomorrow, the four of them. That if he could gallivant around the world they might spend some time away as well. Three weeks on the sea, travelling through France and Spain, and he almost laughed at how ridiculous it was, that they'd missed each other again.

And so he had time to kill. Went north a little more and stayed in a larger city by the water where he climbed aboard a party boat leaving port. They stayed out all night, cruising along the coast. As midnight passed he climbed above deck, drunk and sorely fucked out by a stranger in the toilets.

He'd gone to have a cheeky cigarette. Climbed a railing at the back of the boat where there were fewer people around and sat there rummaging through the pack with all his belongings looking for tobacco, lamenting that he'd forgotten to buy his mother the little chest. He let go of the railing to light it, the wind shifting in his hair and enjoying the rock of the waves parallel to the sway of the vodka.

Nobody noticed him fall backwards. Nor the splash. Too busy hooting at the appalling breakdance battle happening on the foredeck or getting drunk at the upstairs bar. By the time he surfaced, coughing out water, the lights were drifting into the distance, the backwash rocking him while he clawed and kicked in the rippling darkness, bag sinking like a coffin, the shore a distant brushstroke.

And so he floated. Mildly panicked and disoriented. Threw up vodka and crisps in the water around him and went under, then came up, spluttering. Legs tired. Freezing cold. Until he bumped into something and found himself clambering onto a buoy that swayed as he hauled his clumsy limbs onto it's tipping, bobbing frame.

When the sun rose he was alone and shivering. Spent the morning watching for boats, and as the sun slowly burned his skin he slipped carefully back into the water again to protect it, heavy in his clothes and watchful for dark shapes in the water.

It was late in the morning, the sun setting and his tongue dry with thirst, when the seals came.

He thought them a shark at first and climbed higher onto the buoy. Then saw shiny black eyes softened with lashes, grey pelts, and slid down to inspect them, hands blistered from gripping to the metal all day.

They stayed for a while, inspecting him and diving for fish, and when they departed they each had fat squid or shiny tail streaming from their whiskered jaws.

It was late that night that he saw a boat in the distance. Felt his heart leap and waved to it, hoarse voice carving out screams that were swallowed by the water. When it turned away he cursed it, lost to the darkness.

The next day he tried to swim. Made it as far as another buoy, arm and legs trembling with exhaustion and skin raw from salt and sun. The seals swam alongside him, curious and playing, but when he reached for them they dived below and darted away.

He climbed to the top of the buoy. Closer to the shore, here. A spit of land in the distance, a small house at the tip, and in the crashing surf in front a collection of rocks that the seals pulled themselves onto to lay in the sun, glorying in the elements while he slowly waited to die and gulls swooped at him, knocking him from the buoy and surrounding him, sharp beaks diving like daggers to snatch food, their wings kicking the water into a flurry while he surfaced and clung, flinching from their hunger.

There were no more boats. Too close to the rocks. He knew already from his brief conversations with the fishermen at the quaint town further south. He could see the water foaming as it hit them, strong current that dragged rather than guided. There were fish, though, taking shelter in the cove That evening, starving and thirsty, he was able to snatch a piece from the water where a seal had torn it in half. Ate it raw and gratefully while the grey shapes played around him, and ducked from the gulls trying to snatch his prize. When the hateful birds were gone he gave the seals names and trailed his fingers in the water while they nosed at him curiously.

That night, delirious and frozen, the sea whispered to him. That it would carry him. That he couldn't hold on any longer. That it loved him and would hold him as surely as it held the bag that it had swallowed down, and he knew that he belonged to the sea. Didn't remember the fall, but remembered the water. Suddenly warm and embracing while he stripped his clothes off and began to swim. Felt the seals alongside him and tried to move with them, though they left him far behind in the dark water while he aimed for the light on the spit, his lifeline to the world.

He felt the current pull him. The rocks suck him in. Caught a bank of driftwood and rubbish that had been gathered by the current and felt it trap him, drag him under. When his head hit the rocks he barely noticed, just floated there, dazed, until it dumped him out on sand that grazed his wrinkled, bloated skin.

The darkness took him, then, as he heard friendly voices come towards him, carried by the wind.

  
  


*

  
  


The sunlight was pale, a rose-spill that ran like wine across the bed. Kian lay awake, Mark a courteous distance away to avoid jostling his broken rib.

He closed his eyes. Drifted in the moment of it. The spreading heat of the man next to him. The way the sheets pulled when trapped by another person. The tilt of the mattress under heavy limbs. Soft huffs of breath, the occasional snore. Reached out his hand and felt unresponsive fingers that curled gently in sleep.

Inhaled everything Mark was and had been and tried to find a place where they could be together, now that his lost boy had remembered the way back from Neverland.

His eyes were still closed when the fingers shifted, though when they opened he saw sleepy ones looking back, hair a mess on the pillow, and found himself smiling.

“Will you leave me now?” Kian whispered. Mark blinked in the early light.

“Can I have breakfast first?”

Kian giggled and accepted a careful morning kiss.

  
  


 


	21. Chapter 21

_But he sat quite still, benumbed and cold. Then little Gerda shed burning tears; and they fell on his bosom, they penetrated to his heart, they thawed the lumps of ice.  
\- The Snow Queen, Hans Christian Andersen_

  
  


The news was thick with the story for all of a week. The dramatic standoff on the point between a local, the resident mystery man, and the nutter who'd held a knife to his throat. By the following week some twat had held up an off license and had the tar beat out of him by the elderly shop owner, and people's attentions were diverted. Mark and Kian laughed along with the new story before it, too, was usurped by something equally disposable.

And while Kian healed, Mark cared for him.

Mark called his parents. Let them know he was safe, although they were apparently surprised to find out that he'd been technically missing while they'd been on a cruise ship with little internet or television and not seen the news. Kian said he was well enough on his own and to go see them, and one day Mark made the trip an hour up the coast, spent the day there catching up and telling them the story of how he'd been a castaway.

Kian had half expected him not to return, but that night just before dinner Mark had come back in, a smile on his face, and said his mam was looking forward to meeting Kian when he was feeling healed enough for the trip.

And so he was, a few weeks later. They were nice people, welcomed him in. Parents and brothers and cousins and everyone shouting over the top of each other, laughing at jokes that didn't make sense and passing children from knee to knee. It was overwhelming, but as the day wore on and everyone became full and friendly he felt Mark's hand slip into his and wondered if this was what family felt like.

Mark's old bedroom was a small museum. Full of souvenirs and oddities, postcards from strange places. Kian looked at them all, a scattered timeline of travels, and wondered what he could ever offer that would be as interesting, as fulfilling as this life Mark had ambled so effortlessly through. A hundred languages, a thousand sights. All while Kian had sat in a small house on a barren spit, holding onto empty memories he couldn't touch.

It was a thought that chipped at him over the coming weeks. The coming months. While he went back to work through day after day of demanding customers and stocking shelves. He felt like he was standing still while the world turned around him. While people talked at him and he remade an old routine of sleep and breakfast and work and dinner and bed. While Bryan brought him the same coffee and he ate the same sandwich for lunch.

Mark was restless. He could see it. And quietly, hopelessly, he waited for Mark to leave. Waited to come home to an empty house and a note that said Mark was sorry, but he needed to be free again, and he hoped Kian would understand.

And every night he'd come home and find Mark stood in the kitchen, the house filled with the smell of food, and Kian would let himself breathe again.

It was early on a Saturday morning when Kian asked if Mark was happy.

“Are you?” Mark murmured back, and Kian paused, wrapped in the sheets and the arms of the person he loved.

“I don't know,” he admitted. A kiss sucked at his nape. “I don't think I know how happiness works.” Mark didn't reply. He did that sometimes, when he was giving Kian time to think. A hand stroked encouragingly at his stomach. “I'm okay.”

“What's okay?”

“I don't know,” Kian sighed. “I think...” He paused to let Mark snuggle them closer together. “I tried my hardest. To be okay. To have a job and make a life that worked. I was grateful for the house. Because even if I didn't have my parents at least I had a place to start.”

“Start what?”

“Remembering. Figuring out...” He chewed his lip, trying to think. “Maybe I thought it would be different once I knew, but instead it's just more of the same. So what's the point? I thought it would tell me who I am. It hasn't changed anything.”

“Somebody told me once that you have to decide for yourself who you are.” The voice in his ear was low and teasing. Kian snorted.

“Cheeky fucker.” Mark sniggered sleepily. “I'm not happy.”

“Then you need to change that,” Mark said. “What would make you happy?”

“Home,” Kian murmured. He felt it, in the pit of his stomach. The thing he'd been searching for all along. Felt it shift and expand while a soft hand stroked his chest and kisses gentled the back of his neck. Listened to the lap of water that spread to the edge of his little world and beyond, unbound by walls and memories. “My mam never left. She just waited for...” He shook his head. “You won't be happy here. I know you won't. You're more than this and all I do is wait for you to leave.” He clutched the hand, stilled it. Brought it to his heart. “You're home. When you leave, take me with you.”

Mark snorted.

“Don't wait for me,” he chuckled. “Just tell me when you're packed.”

  
  


*

  
  


It was a blistering morning, two weeks before Christmas, when Kian closed up the little house, loaded his bags into the car, and turned on the heating.

“Bit chilly,” he chuckled. “Couldn't have stayed in bed until later?”

Mark kissed his icy nose.

“We've got to get on the road early. There'll be traffic.” Kian pouted. Pulled him in for a proper kiss. Mark's lips were warm, his tongue warmer. He giggled when fingers groped beneath his scarf and slipped beneath his jacket.

“We could have stayed in bed until later,” Kian teased. Mark laughed.

“Thought you'd still be sore after last night.”

“Bit uncomfortable,” Kian admitted. He got a sympathetic hum that wasn't quite sincere. It had taken a while to get back to it, but after his ribs had healed he'd remembered why he was so addicted to Mark's touch. His tongue. His body. His cock. Jesus, Mark's cock.

He was jolted out of his reverie by the car beginning to reverse. Realised he'd been grinning vaguely out the window, the night before replaying in his head. Mark smirked and backed them out of the driveway.

It was a strange feeling. He'd put in his holiday notice, organised his passport. Had spent hours and days packing and repacking his suitcases, making lists, sure he'd missed something. Getting the holes in the roof patched so it wouldn't leak over the two months they'd be gone and unplugging every appliance while Mark had chuckled and stuffed necessities into a large backpack and told him he worried too much, that they'd figure it out as they went along.

Maybe this was an adventure, but Kian didn't think he was ready for that little organisation. Not yet.

The traffic wasn't too bad after all. They made good time, heading south. Mark turned on the radio. He had a good voice. They both sang along, and Kian was so engaged he didn't notice Mark taking the exit off the motorway at first, not until they began to pass through a wooded area and then down a side road, up to a building surrounded by a tall fence.

“Where are we going?”

“Shortcut,” Mark said, though he pulled up to the window, showed his ID, and passed through. Kian looked around them, confused, then saw a sign as they approached, an arrow pointing to the parking lot.

“No,” he said. “I don't want to be here.”

“We're going away, Kian. You haven't even talked about him. Not for months.” Kian shook his head. He hadn't wanted to. To think about the betrayal, the steady anger that rose inside him whenever he even tilted at a memory that had his oldest friend in it.

“He tried to kill you.”

“He is you.” The car stopped. Kian shook his head, heard the click when Mark undid his seatbelt and leaned over. “Maybe it wasn't what you wanted, but a part of you will always be his. You love him.” Kian turned away, not wanting Mark to see his angry tears. “Go and talk to him. Just for a minute. I called in advance. They're expecting a visit.”

“You went behind my back.”

“I did.” A gentle finger picked a tear from his cheek. “You couldn't help him, but maybe they can. Do you want to hate him forever?” He didn't. Not for Shane, but for himself. For the nightmares he kept having, of childhood stories and games split in half by screaming and the glint of a knife in the moonlight. “I'll wait in the car. Take your time.”

Kian's feet crunched in the gravel as he climbed the path from the car to the door. It seemed a clean place. Tidy lawns and a neat front hall. Not the sterile facility he'd expected at all, but something closer to a large group home. He could hear chatter down the hall, and when he heard a sudden carrying laugh while he was checking in at the front desk he felt himself smile nervously.

The common area was large and friendly. Soft chairs and boardgames, a television. Large windows that looked out on the gardens. And in the middle, a small group of on-lookers clustered around, was Shane. Stood on a footstool among his audience, crafting a story.

“And then he found the little key and turned it inside the lock, and when he's finished unlocking it we will found out what wonderful thing is in the chest.” He looked up. Hazel eyes that were clear for the first time in memory. Kian held his breath. “Sorry lads.” Shane hopped down off the stool. “Back later.”

“But what was in the chest?” a skinny girl in an oversized jumper asked. “You didn't finish the story.” There was a murmur of agreement from the assembled group. “Is it gold?”

“It's a magic sword,” an older man said confidently.

“No, it's a warm coat so he can make it home safely,” a middle-aged woman retorted. They were still arguing amonhst themselves when Shane stopped in front of Kian.

“Hello,” Kian said. Shane nodded.

“Hi.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Want to come out in the garden?”

It was cold outside, though the frost had started to thaw. They walked in silence for a while, broken by the crunch of icy grass under their shoes. Shane sat down carefully on a bench.

“I didn't think you'd come to see me.”

“I didn't either,” Kian admitted, and sat as well. “I erm...” He swallowed. “I'm so angry at you.” Shane nodded, and didn't argue. “You look like you're doing better.”

“I feel clearer,” Shane agreed. “The first couple of months...” His hands clasped fretfully together and Kian saw healing scars on his wrists, pink lines. “Sobriety sucks, I know that much.” A snort huffed out in a faint white mist. “They've got me on other stuff. I kept trying not to think, but now I have to. Think and... and face some things I didn't really want to. I used you to make myself feel better, and that wasn't fair.”

“I wanted to help.”

“I know. You were a good friend.” Fingers traced over the pink lines. “But it was never your fault. I made it your problem so it wouldn't have to be mine.” He breathed out slowly, fogging the air. “I never...” He swallowed. “I've never been with anyone. It felt safe to be in love with you because I knew you'd never want me back. I just didn't want anyone else to have you either so I made up stories that weren't true, and when things got bad I started to believe them. It's something I'm working on. I don't think I'll be leaving here for a while. It's probably the best place for me right now.”

“It probably is,” Kian agreed. Shane nodded.

“I'm supposed to say sorry to the people I hurt.”

“I don't want your apologies,” Kian said. “You can't make it better.”

“No. I can't. How's Mark? Is he...”

“He's fine. We're going away for a little while. He found his family, so we're going to spend Christmas with them, then we're going to Europe. Driving holiday.”

“You? On holiday?” Shane chuckled. “You're not going to relax as well?”

“New experiences,” Kian laughed. “I... I found a lead on my dad.” Shane's eyes widened. “We're going to go south for a little bit before we visit Mark's folks. See if we can track him down. I don't know what's going to happen, but...”

“I'm happy for you.” Shane's hands unfolded and he reached out. Kian took it. Felt a cold grip squeeze his. “You deserve a family.”

“Thanks.” Shane's cheeks were pink, his eyes bright. “This reminds me of one of your stories, actually. The little boy who gets splinters of ice in him and is taken by the snow queen.”

“He gets brought back, though,” Shane finished. “After a few adventures, of course.”

“Of course.” Kian found himself smiling. “I'm glad you're doing better. Maybe when we're home I could drop in and see how you are. Send you a postcard?”

“I'd like that.” Shane stood. “But don't worry about me. That relaxing's going to make you anxious enough as it is.” He laughed and leapt out of the way of Kian's playful shove. “I'm glad you came.”

“Me too.” Kian stood as well. They began to make their way back across the lawn, across damp grass that stood green even in the cold. “What was in the chest, anyway, seeing as I won't be around to hear the end of the story?”

“That is the end of the story,” Shane chuckled. “There are no answers, there is no ending. I always though it was stupid, but now it's one of my favourites.” He pushed open the door. “They'll argue over what's inside, but it doesn't matter. Not really. If you knew it wouldn't be interesting.” Hopeful eyes turned towards them as Shane stepped back into the common room and Kian resisted the urge to laugh. “Say hi to Mark. Tell him I'm sorry.”

“I will.” Kian hesitated.

Then he pulled Shane into a hug.

  
  


*

  
  


From the outside the quaint village looked desolate. Chimneys puffing white plumes that seemed to greet the dove-grey clouds. Square houses of every colour that flattened a face towards the water, clustered together as though gossiping. The water was pale, a blank face pockmarked by stationary boats moored across it's surface.

They pulled up near the pier, at a large boatshed with a yellow seashell above it's gaping maw, a plank that descended to drink just over the water's edge. He could hear laughter inside. Mark took his hand.

It was a friendly boy of about twenty that met them at the desk. Tall and dark hair slicked back.

“Hello lads. Doing the bass fishing experience? We don't leave for an hour yet.”

“Er... no.” Kian peered over his shoulder to where there were a few lads clustered beside a blue and white fishing boat, having a chat. “I was wondering if there was a Kevin Egan here, if he's free.” He saw the lad go to shake his head. “I could leave him a message? Or...”

“I'm sorry,” the lad said. “Kevin Egan passed last year.” Kian felt his eyes fill with tears. “Did you know him well?”

“Er... no. No. Sorry. Just... met him once. Thought I'd...” Mark's hand settled comfortingly on his back. “It's alright. Thanks for you help, erm...”

“Colm.” A hand stuck out. “I'm his son.”

“Oh.” He saw it. The hair, the eyes. Something innate that wasn't their parents, was theirs alone, though Colm didn't know it. A shared language. “Well... good to meet you.” They shook hands. “How's your mam?”

“She's alright. If you want to see her I can give her a ring? Sure she'd like to talk to you if you knew him. I'm going to dinner with her and my sister tonight.” Kian hesitated. “Tell ya what, I'm taking the boat out in a minute. You're free to come if you like. You can tell me about meeting my dad.”

“I... I'm not good around water,” Kian admitted. The smile on Colm's face faltered, the one that matched his. “It's safe?”

“As houses. Give you a life-vest and all.” Kian glanced out. At still water, reflecting the sunlight that was beginning to peer through parting clouds. The hand on his back lifted away and for a moment he stood there, swaying and unsupported, the sea sloshing beneath the slats under his feet. “You sure we haven't met before? Feel like I know you from somewhere.”

“Feel like I know you too.” Kian smiled. “Okay.” He cast a wary look at the sea. “Get me a life-vest though.”

“Coming up,” Colm chuckled. “Come on through.”

Kian went. The boat was bigger than the one he remembered. Real. He ran a hand along it's side and climbed the ladder, nodded nervously while Colm helped him adjust his vest and pointed out the safety features when Kian asked.

They passed Mark on the way out. Leaned against the railing of the pier, the sunlight in his hair. Kian lifted a wave.

Mark waved back.

Kian turned to the welcoming sea, the current catching them as the wind blew through his hair.

  
  


 


End file.
